Bad Blood Will Out
by RiseoftheConsortium
Summary: Tom Riddle isn't the only young wizard Horace Slughorn helped lead down the path of darkness. Now so many years later he will guide another. Includes Slash, Time Travel , and Torture. HP/LV. Evil!Dumbledore
1. Chapter 1

_Bad Blood Will Out_

**Summary: **Tom Riddle isn't the only young wizard Horace Slughorn helped lead down the path of darkness. Now, so many years later, he will guide another.

**Warnings**: Slash, time travel, and torture. HP/LV. Evil!Dumbledore

If you disagree with any of these things, then this is not the story for you. You should leave now because you probably won't enjoy this story. And why read something you dislike?

**Disclaimer**: Not mine, as you will no doubt see from the extreme OOC. Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling.

**Update: 4/29/2012 **As of now chapter one and two have been edited by my wonderful beta Loveliness Decays so they should be easier to read. :D

- BBWO -

Chapter One

The summer before Harry's sixth year was tedious in the extreme.

Everyday was monotonous as each second, minute, day, and week slid into each other like an infinite jigsaw puzzle.

For the most part, Harry was left alone by his relatives; but sometimes Vernon came home drunk. Vernon, the fool, had been demoted recently after an incident that occurred at one of the 'famed' dinner parties he was hosting for a client.

This time, it was not the overenthusiastic protection of a wild house elf that ruined the event. In fact, truth be told, the dinner was over before it had even began, for it seemed his dearuncle hadforgotten to do his research; when Dudley opened the door, he found a homosexual couple on the other side.

The Dursleys did not expect a homosexual couple to show up on their doorstep and Vernon, closed-minded pig that he was, couldn't connect the dots between the couple and the scheduled clients before he began to berate their unnatural lifestyle, yelling all the while.

The rather nice and attractive couple left in a huff, swearing never to do business with such a prejudiced organization, but not before the slightly bulkier of the two got one good punch square to Vernon's blubbery jaw. The resounding crack was a sound Harry would hold dear in his memories for the rest of his life.

In any case, Harry's life at Number Four Privet Drive was mostly a quiet one. He was not forced to do any chores and Dudley didn't attempt to smack him about. Nor was a word said about his parentage.

It could have been one of the best summers of Harry's life - if not for the fact that forgetting his existence seemed an all or nothing act for the Dursleys.

Just three days after his birthday, Harry Potter was slowly wasting away without any food to sustain him. After all, birthday cake and chocolate frogs only got you so far. Currently, all Harry had stashed away was a couple of rock cakes - he was more than sure they were inedible - and a single precious candy bar that Harry had nicked from the kitchen when he had been let out to the bathroom unsupervised.

His prospects looked dim even to him. Hedwig had been sent to the Weasleys for protection weeks ago, after Vernon threatened to break her neck if she made any more noise. Harry had reluctantly made the decision to send away his only friend and companion for her own good.

All Harry could do was sleep - or try to. Sleeping was the only escape from the pangs of hunger that ravaged him, a double edged sanctuary. It saved his mind and destroyed it, comforted his body and plagued his conscience.

It became very obvious very quickly that making Harry's life miserable was Voldemort's main goal.

The daily jaunts into bastard's mind were doing nothing to preserve his sanity. Harry wouldn't admit it, but there were times in which he was sure that if he had to endure any more of this torture, he'd surely go mad. He'd just snap one day and end up offing all his relatives in his sleep or something.

If only underage magic wasn't illegal; if only he wouldn't be brought to court for it. In the eyes of the Ministry, fighting Dementors had not been a worthy enough cause to break their laws, and as such, it was highly unlikely that incapacitating his family would be an acceptable excuse either, even if he did it to prevent starving to death.

But these idle thoughts were pointless; Harry didn't even have his wand.

With that last thought, Harry shifted over to his side and laid down to sleep under his threadbare covers. He was going to sleep tonight at any cost.

His determination seemed to mute the noises at Privet Drive. Even the rattling of dishes downstairs as his fat family feasted faded into nothing.

Sighing contentedly, Harry finally allowed his eyes to slip firmly shut. In his mind, there were no walls holding him hostage. There were no magic hating Muggles.

There was nothing but darkness.

- BBWO -

A hideously loud crack tore Harry from the little peace he had managed to find.

It was not so much later, not even two hours later, but Harry found himself ripping off his covers and reaching for a wand that wasn't there.

It took a few seconds for his sleep addled brain to recognize that even if there was danger - highly unlikely thanks to Dumbledore's precious blood wards - he was in no position to fight. The disturbance was probably just the back shot of a car.

That idea comforted him, and he was about to try and go back to sleep when there was another roar; but this time, it was closer and familiar.

Uncle Vernon's loud, throaty barks about freaks floated up to Harry's tiny bedroom like a well-known radio broadcast. ('The Uncultured Swine Station' was a likely title for such.)

Harry wouldn't have even reacted to the vicious stream of verbal abuse had he not heard what his uncle yelled then: "You and your lot can have him, Dubblydore. Take him and be gone. Good riddance!"

Hope flared up in the pit of his stomach: this was it. Finally, the cavalry had arrived.

This joy did not lessen even as the minutes ticked by. What was taking so long? His relatives couldn't wait to be rid of him just as much as he was of them. The waiting was agony.

But soon enough, he could hear his salvation in the heavy thuds on the stairs. Harry had never been so happy to hear his uncle's laborious steps before. By the time the key clicked in the lock and the rickety door swung open, all of his meager processions had been gathered and packed up.

Harry didn't even spare a look for his uncle. He just quietly passed and continued down the stairs closer to freedom than he'd been since June.

The sight of Dumbledore in garish red and orange robes didn't faze him; it only made him squint in response. Such vibrant color was unusual after living with only white walls for company. His trunk and wand seemed to already be in Dumbledore's procession, which explained the wait.

Without waiting for a "touching" goodbye, Harry hoisted his trunk up and marched out of the house without even a backwards glance.

"Wait, my dear boy, don't you want to say - " Before Dumbledore could finish, the door slammed shut behind him.

Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the night, Harry waited on the curb, silently preparing himself for whatever strange journey he would be swept away on next. Knowing the man as he did, their journey could be anything from a trip to a Muggle lemon drop factory to a vicious battle with Voldemort on a rocky cliff. One could never know with Dumbledore.

The Headmaster exited behind him and the door slammed shut for the final time. Harry felt a sense of peace and contentment fall over him. One more summer; then there would be no more hatred. No more abuse. No more pain.

The usual gentle smile that graced Dumbledore's face seemed a bit more strained then usual and the twinkle in his eyes was dimmed. The man's aged face did not display his trademark cheerfulness. Slowly, he approached Harry and laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

Harry's normal reflexes made it very hard not to flinch as the fragile weight alighted upon on his right shoulder.

Dumbledore's voice was light and airy. "It brings me great sadness, my boy, to see that things between you and your family have not straightened out in the passing years."

"To be perfectly honest, Headmaster, I think that it is a foolish hope to believe that my family and I will ever get on." Harry kept his voice disinterested, careful not to reveal the true extent of his malice.

It had been years since Harry had attempted to explain the abuse he had been suffering to Dumbledore. In fact, it had been years since Harry had tried to tell anyone about it. All of his previous attempts to get help landed him in even more trouble afterwards.

Harry had tried to tell policemen, old school teachers, and even one of those confidential counselors. Dumbledore had heard Harry's last ever cry for help. He had either misunderstood the what Harry had tried to explain or he willfully ignored his troubles.

Harry found he did not want to contemplate which was the true reason for Dumbledore's disregard.

Harry had come to accept his lot in life; it was duty to survive whatever fate threw his way. Maybe it was some unwritten part of the prophecy. The Chosen One had to suffer and triumph through torment before he could fulfill his duty in life and die killing the worst Dark Lord of the age. Harry could already imagine Trelawney's drunken snickering at the subtext.

"I really am disappointed to hear that there is no reconciliation for the four of you. I understand that there has been hurt and resentment, but I still believe that given enough time and patience, this situation can be resolved."

The gently prodding tone only served to irritate Harry further, but he kept his temper in check. One of the many things he had been working on this summer was controlling his emotions. Harry decided to get in touch with his Slytherin side and accept the old hat's wisdom. Slytherin could lead him down the path of greatness. Rash, emotional decisions were what got Sirius killed.

Even through the hell he'd endured, Harry made a promise to himself: to change his ways and perspective. If he didn't more people would die because of his choices, choices that had been made without all the proper care.

Something Harry had been contemplating was Dumbledore's absence in his life over the past year. If all it took to make the great Albus Dumbledore waiver in his support was some bad press, Harry would be better off without him.

The problem, of course, was that if he openly rejected the proffered hand of Dumbledore, many would begin to believe that he was turning Dark.

A small childish voice in the back of Harry's mind wondered if that was just what he was doing embracing his Slytherin side. There wasn't a Dark witch or wizard who didn't come from Slytherin.

For one heart stopping second, Harry almost believed that - and then Harry remembered the person for whom Harry was making all the changes. Sirius. Sirius had been betrayed by Peter Pettigrew, a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin. That alone was enough to dissolve any lingering hesitation.

"I believe, sir, that this is one thing we must agree to disagree on," Harry countered calmly. "May I ask where we are going? We aren't just going to just stand here on the curb on all night, I'm sure."

Dumbledore smiled a bit more brightly, encouraged by the little grin Harry flashed his way. "Indeed, Harry. Tonight, we are going to take a little trip to a charming little muggle village called Budleigh Babberton." Dumbledore paused and caught Harry's questioning look. "It is there you are to help me with a little task for the coming school year. Are you up for helping an old man such as myself?"

"Of course!" Harry replied quickly to complete the eager Gryffindor look. It wasn't that Harry wanted to lie to his Headmaster, but Harry just couldn't imagine him - or anyone else - ever understanding his predicament. And it wasn't even a lie; it was only some exaggerated enthusiasm after all.

Harry's new behavior would have to be disguised by a Gryffindor attitude. Over the summer, Harry had realized that every time the school turned against him, it was because the delicate status quo at Hogwarts had been unbalanced. It was safe to say that if Harry began acting with Slytherin cunning, the school as a whole would have a collective heart attack.

In his second year of schooling, everyone turned on him because being a Parseltongue was obviously a sign of evil running in your veins. Ooh, he had talked to a snake; he was obviously terribly crazy. The worst he could do with that was have a snake bite someone; and a snake charmer could do that with half the effort. Most people didn't understand that snakes were quite stubborn creatures and it took some impressive negotiation to get them to do anything.

In his fourth year, there was the second massive turn against him when he became the Triwizard champion. They either believed he was smart and talented enough to distract the Goblet on his own or they saw it as another perk of fame. Both explanations were ridiculous. If he were really that famous, wouldn't there be more people trying to protect him and not kill him?

Most of the time, Harry felt more notorious than famous.

By Harry's fifth year, it became disturbingly obvious - if Harry hadn't already realized - that the Wizarding world was filled with sheep herded by the media. It was repulsive, the amount of power _insects_ like Rita Skeeter held. Harry was sure that if he were in the Muggle world, he would sue for slander. Nobody wanted to believe the Dark Lord was back, so he must've been lying. A dead classmate and knife wound weren't signs of being attacked by a disturbed psychopath. Not at all.

These sarcastic thoughts could have gone on the whole night if Dumbledore hadn't interrupted his internal ranting monologue.

"We must not dilly dally, my dear boy. There is lots of work to be done tonight. If you would take my arm, we will be off."

Harry, who was still slightly out of it, took the proffered arm and was shocked to feel himself being sucked through a straw - or, at least, that's what it felt like. The unpleasant suction and compression made Harry light headed; his stomach lurched.

By the time the world was normal again, Harry couldn't tell. All he knew was that the cool ground against his liquefied brain felt very nice indeed. After a moment, Harry decided that Apparating would not be his primary mode of transportation in the near future. He felt quite sure that he never wanted to travel in that fashion again.

The thought that they would have to return as they had come made Harry's stomach roll with disgust.

"Up you go." Harry could only squint as he cocked his head to look Dumbledore in the eye. The pounding in his head seemed to dim a bit, but Harry couldn't be sure because the sound of Dumbledore's gales of laughter made him feel a bit dizzy.

"I'm dead. There is no need to move my lifeless body. I'm sure the muggles will be kind enough to step over me on their morning commute." Harry's voice was muffled by the irregular pavement. The little bits of rock and dirt flying about his mouth forced him to roll over. All the while, the Headmaster was absolutely no help. It seemed that his _completely serious _comment was hilarious, as it only encouraged the Headmaster's riotous laughter and unhelpful attitude.

Finally, the man reached with a shaking, aged arm to help him off the ground. Harry, with his view from the ground, studied the hand; it was wrinkled and spotted with age as one might expect of a man in his early hundreds. The grip of Dumbledore's hand was tight, but his arm still seemed to be weak with amusement and it shook as he helped Harry from the floor.

With a jolt of strength on both of their parts, Harry was once again on his feet; the world began to reorient itself. Dumbledore, it seemed, believed Harry to now be of sound mind and body, because as soon as the man let go of his wrist, he had sped off again, heading toward a small grouping of houses just across the way. The sound of Dumbledore's thick robes and jiggling slippers slapping across the street were the only noises close enough to be heard in the little village.

Harry found that the house he had seen from the street, a very nice if not slightly cookie cutter upper class home, was just about as different as one could be, except upon entering. The entire building was dim and unlit, but really, it was the middle of the night, so that was not at all that unusual.

But the interior, Harry decided, left much to be desired. Harry could understand that whole lived in look, but apparently these people took it to the extreme.

Or it could have been that the entire house had been ransacked, but personally, Harry thought it could be just another extreme example of the rich Muggles having strange and awkward tastes.

Broken glass and shreds of upholstery lay scattered across scuffed and decimated wood flooring. A ruined piano sat in the corner with several of the keys popping out of the mouth.

The one thing that stopped all Harry's internal jokes on the terrible taste of the Muggle elite was the gaping hole in the ceiling that was dripping blood.

Harry glanced quickly over to Dumbledore, who had remained silent the whole time. Instead of springing into action to check whether there was a slowly dying Muggle just above their heads, Dumbledore did the strangest thing.

He held out one crooked finger and waited patiently until a single drop of blood landed on it. Then he proceeded to not only sniff the offending red substance, but after a short inquisitive look, he popped the digit into his mouth and tasted it.

Dumbledore must have read the horror and disgust on Harry's face before he even had a chance to voice it, because he reassured him quickly, "Dragon's blood."

"In any case, sir, I'm not sure that's all that sanitary, but whatever works I guess." Harry paused for a moment, still not able to wrap his mind around his Headmaster's eccentric methods.

Silence reigned for a few more moments before Harry continued, voicing a thought that was troubling him. "So this house was ransacked by Death Eaters? But that can't be completely right, for one this is obviously not a Muggle home, or at least not completely because a Muggle would not have access to dragon's blood. Plus, it seems rather unlikely that this place was attacked by Death Eaters for several reasons."

Dumbledore was still watching Harry skeptically, but a dreamy, contented look was still present on his face, so Harry continued.

"Firstly, if, in fact, this had been the sight of a Death Eater attack, there would probably be more damage to the surrounding area. Actually, there isn't any damage other than this house at all. And I would expect if some sort of crime took place here that the local Muggle newspaper would report on it."

Harry walked around the room, mentally taking a picture of the landscape and analyzing it. Almost absently, he continued, "As for the dragon's blood, either the Death Eaters would have stolen the whole bottle - because I'm pretty sure it is a restricted potion ingredient - or the bottle would have been broken in the struggle, but there is no glass around from such a bottle. The placement of the spill in my opinion is what is fishy."

Harry stopped abruptly and searched the room for something that would make the whole situation make sense.

Sense.

Opening both his nose and mouth, Harry took several rapid breaths, tasting the air.

Dumbledore stood, quiet and watching, awed by the perception in Harry's observations and his strange behavior. It was simply astonishing how much the boy had changed since Hogwarts. Not only had his magical power and presence seemed to have increased greatly, but his maturity level also seemed to have risen. It was unbelievable how much extra magic power Harry had gained over the summer and the boy was not even done growing yet. There was still a whole year before his majority.

Dumbledore decided then and there to keep a closer eye on his pupil this year and to help him control his newly found power.

The air was saturated with magic, strong magic. It was so thick in the air that he could both smell and taste it. Although it seemed to be fairly recent, its potency was beginning to fade. Harry's eyes flickered across the room, searching for the source. Broken lamps. Broken tables. Ripped paintings. Ah ha. The chair.

"Professor Dumbledore, whoever was living here is still here now," Harry informed the man in a casual tone that did not quite fit the meaning of his words nor the way his grip had tightened on the holly handle of his wand. Other than the slight tensing of his shoulders and arms, it was actually quite bizarre how calm Harry appeared to be.

Dumbledore's reaction to this news was peculiar and puzzling. Not even the slightest glimmer of surprise or the hardening of a jaw could be perceived. The headmaster, instead of questioning Harry or taking action, simply looked around for a moment.

Upon not finding even a single chair that was serviceable, other than the blue striped arm chair that Harry had originally noticed, he transfigured a half broken blue and white flowered vase into a great squishy purple recliner chair. He then promptly plopped down into it and sat with pale fingers folded delicately in his lap.

Harry, for all his practicing, could not hide the confusion and disbelief that clouded his features. What in the world was going on?

"Harry, it would be my great pleasure to introduce you to an old friend and colleague of mine. Not only is he a man I believe to be a dear friend but he is also, like you, my boy, quite well known." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with mischief.

All in all, Dumbledore's speech would have been a fairly normal introduction if he had not in fact been introducing Harry to a chair that was not a chair.

If an outside observer had the opportunity to observe their little gathering Harry was sure that Dumbledore would have been sacked on the spot.

"Sir, do you, uh…" Harry paused for a moment as he tried to find the right words. "Are you well acquainted with this… piece of furniture?"

Harry couldn't believe how stupid he sounded to his own ears, but he was unable to find another way to state it. He did not want to offend the _un_chair by asking if this was a friend, foe, or coward they were hunting.

Dumbledore's reply was less than informative as he aptly responded to the former question with "Quite."

After a tense moment or two in which Harry wondered if this was not real and instead some strange, hunger induced dream, the Headmaster deftly pulled out his wand. Watching the man perform even the simplest magic was an entrancing sight, but the magic that Dumbledore preformed at that moment was _glorious_.

After a few quick swishes and flicks, broken pieces of glass, furniture, canvas, and other objects began to knit themselves back together. Dirt swept itself up into the newly reformed potted plant base and crystal gems zinged through the air to the ceiling where a champagne and gold chandelier was restructuring. And that was only what was happening to the physical objects.

Magic was itself was almost visible in the room. Barely translucent threads of it weaved and flowed throughout the room, as if the room were but a host for a spider's web. The almost conscious way certain strands reacted was wondrous.

Harry watched in awe as the complex array of spells interacted with each other. Certain spells that would have an adverse effect if complained deftly avoided each other as if each spell had complete control of itself. Other spells seemed to purposely combine to create a greater effect which would finish more efficiently.

This was not an ordinary cleaning or repairing spell. This was something baser, more instinctive.

From that moment, Harry vowed to learn this type of magic.

For Harry, practical magic had been easy, but all the Latin and heavy wand moments seemed to weigh the magic down. Now that Harry had actively seen there was a different way up close, there was no turning back. Just being around this type of magic was incredible. Harry couldn't even imagine what it would be like to experience it for himself.

As the room finished its transformation, the greatest flair of magic yet eclipsed the room. The blue striped arm chair - which Harry was certain was a person - began to change. The sound of popping springs filled the room as the cushions shuttered and reformed. In no time at all, instead of a blue stripped armchair, there was a man in blue stripped pajamas in his place.

"Horace!" Dumbledore greeted the newly transformed man jovially. It was clear to see that the ostensible 'Horace' was not nearly as ecstatic to see his apparent old friend. The man was probably in his mid or late seventies. He was a squat man with a somewhat slackened face. His cheeks were rosy with color and his gooseberry green eyes were dulled with the sleepy fatigue that an enchantment can induce.

The overall impression Harry took away from the man standing before him was that of a sleepy bulldog. Whether that bulldog was as gentle when poked and prodded might be another story.

"Albus?" Horace inquired in a thick throated tone that was reminiscent of the same cotton which had just recently been his innards.

Harry found it interesting that in that moment it seemed that Horace was just as if not more confused by the situation than Harry himself was. It was actually quite an addicting position to be in, the one who knew more answers than questions.

"Albus?" This time, his voice was a bit firmer and surer. "By Merlin, what brings you here, old chap?"

Dumbledore's mood brightened as his "old friend" seemed to clear up and remember him and he hurried over to shake the man's hand enthusiastically. They were definitely more than mere acquaintances, but the bond of friendship that the two of them evidently shared was more of convenience and proximity rather than shared ideals and hobbies.

Harry could not say for sure how he knew, but he thought it was because although they were comfortable with the ease of friendship there still seemed to be an underlying tension in the room. Everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

In the now illuminated room, Harry could visibly see what had apparently caused his headmasters previous weakness. Dumbledore's whole right hand had been consumed by charcoal colored burns. The skin of his dominant hand was charred and shiny with burns.

How in the world had Harry not noticed this before? Now, in the light of the tastefully decorated Muggle living room, it was obvious, but before it went unnoticed. Harry was not the only one to have noticed the grave injury; he watched the Headmaster wave off any attempt of examination or help by the other gentleman.

The conversation that followed after they reacquainted was swift and almost silent, but Harry could tell they were squabbling by the look of contention that crossed over the other man's face before he sighed and apparently gave up.

"Harry" the headmaster called, pulling him out of his internal assessments. "I would like to formally introduce you to my dear friend Mr. Horace Slughorn. He was a professor at Hogwarts when your parents attended, you know."

Harry was greatly tempted to retort that of course, he did not know, because no one told him anything. But instead, he replied politely, if not a little dully, "Pleased to meet you, sir."

For his part, Slughorn did not seem offended nor taken aback by Harry's rather lackluster greeting, and Harry wondered if it was custom for the man to receive less than animated greetings.

"Ah, young Harry. A pleasure. A pleasure." The man responded with a fervent handshake. "I'm sure you've already heard as much, but I must say, you look remarkably like your mother."

As the man had begun speaking, Harry had been feeling the dull pit of boredom filling up and as he broached the cliché topic of his looks, Harry could only feel the mild bout of annoyance. But shock, pure shock was all Harry felt as the man finished his statement.

After gaping for a moment or two, Harry finally regained control over his actions to ask, stuttering, "Sir, are you sure? Are you certain you don't mean to say that I look a great deal like my father?"

Slughorn chuckled at Harry's shock and disbelief, his great jowled cheeks quivering and shaking with his mirth. "Well, I suppose if one were looking for it, they would find a great many resemblances to James Potter. But to a truly trained and keen eye, under that mop of messy black hair are your mother's cheek bones and chin, and her tell tale eyes, of course. And your small and slender nose."

It was strange to listen to a list of all his prominent features rattled off in a list, but Harry actually found himself rather grateful. A great many people looked, stared, examined and even assaulted him with their eyes, but no one ever saw. Harry could not explain how special he felt because of Slughorn's semi-impartial assessment.

If Harry could turn outward and look at his own features now Harry was sure that between the shocked and hopeful expression on his face and his wide eyed stare that he almost certainly bared a resemblance to a lost puppy. He blushed furiously at the thought.

"Horace, my dear fellow, may I use your loo?" Harry was startled when Dumbledore broke the calm. Slughorn, for his part, looked only bemused as he gave directions. Dumbledore left them quickly, disappearing to an upstairs bathroom, out of sight. It was at that same moment that the door upstairs slammed shut with a partially muted bang that shifted the entire mood of the room.

When Harry looked back to his only other companion, he was shocked to see an almost completely different man standing before him.

Harry was unsure of what to say. He didn't even know what to think. Where there had once been a slight daft and doddering old man, there was now a keen, slick, cunning old gentleman. Somehow, the pajamas looked like the fashion statement of a rich and powerful man, rather than an old dotty how had just rolled out of bed.

The previous slackened face and droopy wrinkles had been transformed and reformed by the sly smirk that coated the man's face.

"Wha - " Harry started to ask but was stopped by finger held over the other man's thin lips.

"There is not much time to talk, but there are some very important pieces of information I need to share with you," the man - Harry didn't even know what to call him - asserted. "While I know that you have no reason to trust me, I ask, I beg, that you at least give me the chance to tell you something that could change your life forever."

Harry surprised even himself at that moment when he nodded his head quickly in conformation. His mind screamed at his body, but Harry could not seem to help himself. This was a stupid Gryffindor move charging in without thinking, but Harry could not stop himself.

All he could say was that if nothing else, one thing Slughorn had told him was the truth; his life was about to change forever.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter at all! Obviously.**

**Alright this is the second chapter of Bad Blood Will Out. I hope you all enjoy it and know review and such… :D**

**Update: 4/29/2012 **This chapter has just been edited by my beta Loveliness Decays so it is probably easier to read now. Huge thanks to her for all her help!

Slughorn led him into a small adjoining sitting room with a comfortable stone fireplace, in which there was a roaring blaze lit, its warm reds and neutrals coating the walls.

The room was covered with pictures. On the walls. The mantle. The little dark wood desk in the corner. Even the end tables that held expensive decorative Muggle lamps were filled with pictures. Not just any type of pictures either; these pictures, every single one of them, seemed to be of the wizarding variety, full of older black and white versions of young men and women dressed in what seemed to be even more outrageous versions of fashion robes. These people, Harry could tell, were from a whole other era with their pleated and frilly robes and strange mustaches and braids.

All kinds of photos, new and old, graced the space. The apparent favorites were housed in gleaming metal frames that sparkled like galleons and sickles.

"Who are these people?" Harry could not help but ask in wonder as he continued to wander, taking in each and every one.

Slughorn's reply was startling in its matter of fact tone. "Some are friends. Some are enemies. Some are neither, really. One thing they all have in common is their considerable influence, past or present."

Harry was unsure what to say after that. What did one say to an obviously underestimated powerful man with collection of famous people?

Horace Slughorn owned more than these people's pictures.

"Who are you?" Harry asked in a somewhat desperate tone, in earnest and not at all like the bored and detached moody teenager that he had been portraying earlier. This man was somebody to be reckoned with. The hundreds of eyes staring out from the glossy photo frames made him feel small and inferior. It felt like there was a silent army surrounding him.

"I am Horace Slughorn," the man replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. His name sounded more regal and important now; when Dumbledore had introduced them, it had seemed sort of a silly name.

Harry was about to open his mouth and ask exactly who Horace Slughorn was when he caught a glimpse of something red out of the corner of his eye. It was probably best that this particular shade of red clogged the words in his throat because such a question was hardly intelligent. The red that stole Harry's attention without even a full view was red and orange and golden all at the same time.

"Mother?" Harry whispered softly, the word broken as it left his lips. Even upon first glance, Harry had known which woman it was dancing inside her golden frame, blowing kisses and giving out full bellied laughs, at which Harry could only stop and stare.

The sight hooked him from the very first moment. His eyes roved the frame up and down searching desperately for the features Slughorn had previously singled out. Harry couldn't help but reach out his fingers, tracing the glassy spots where he found each and every similarity.

"Ah, yes!" Slughorn exclaimed. "Lily Evans she was a favorite of mine to teach; keen to learn and quick as a whip. She became a brilliant potioneer. I believe that, if not for unfortunate events, she might have become a Potions Mistress given time."

"Really?"

Slughorn only gave him a little smile.

"Harry, as I said before, there is something important I must discuss with you. I would be more than happy to talk with you about your mother anytime in the future, but at the present moment, there are more pressing matters at hand." He paused for a moment waiting to see if Harry would pose any objections, but when none were forthcoming he continued. "Dumbledore is not the kind, eccentric, doddering old grandfather he appears to be."

Whatever Harry had expected Slughorn to say, that certainly was not it. All thoughts stopped cold as he spluttered, uncertain if he'd heard the man correctly. "What - you must be joking!"

"I'm afraid not. I'm sorry to say that I have learned unwanted information that cannot be ignored. It involves - " Slughorn was interrupted before he'd gotten to the apparent scandal.

"I don't even know you!" Harry's face grew red and flushed with anger. Harry didn't particularly like Dumbledore at the moment, but refusing to work with someone and believing crazy rumors were two very different things. "I don't know you," Harry repeated. "I can't trust you and I have no idea what your motives are and I don't know why you are trying to tell me this. If you are keen for justice, go the aurors or something."

"The reason," Slughorn said slowly. "I am telling you this is because it mainly affects you. My motives are pure, or at least as pure as they can be, of any generally ambitious Slytherin."

Somehow, these words did not comfort Harry at all. The bluntness of it all was a bit frightening.

"I know what I am about to say to you is going to be hard to believe, and you have no concrete reason to trust me, but if nothing but for your own peace of mind, please just listen to what I have to say."

The tone of the man's deep rumbling voice was comforting, but Harry knew he couldn't place his trust in something so insubstantial. Deciding the only course of prudent action was to wait and listen, Harry did just that.

"Although I cannot tell you how I came upon this knowledge, I can tell you with absolutely honesty that this source is completely reliable." He stopped, waiting to see if Harry would interrupt. No complaints were uttered and Harry only quirked a vaguely interested eyebrow amidst a confused expression.

Quickly, the portly man continued, "It came to my attention last year from an unexpected source that Dumbledore has been doing you a great disservice. I have to ask you, Harry… do you ever feel… strained while completing your schoolwork at Hogwarts?"

Running a slim fingered hand through his messy black hair, he responded quietly, "Well, I don't know really. What I mean to say is that in class I could do the spells pretty well, especially DADA." Harry smiled, remembering the previous year he had spent teaching his fellow students. "But for the written portion, I have a harder time. I do try and study and all, but I guess I just don't have a very good memory or something. So I don't do as well in classes like history or…" Harry blushed. "Potions."

"It's quite alright. In fact, I believe that I have an answer as to why you have a more difficult time memorizing things than some of your peers do."

Harry was quite confused at the apparent switches in personality from time to time. One moment he was cryptic and the next he was kind and comforting. It was too strange to follow.

"Okay…?" Harry took the seat closest to the photos of his mother. "So how do both of these things come together?"

"There is a potion called _Mollis Mentis,_" Slughorn began, changing the subject again. "It was originally invented by a cunning witch by the name of Beatrice Giouanus. She created it in the early fourteenth century to subdue her aggressive husband."

Although Harry didn't really see where this was going, he was beginning have an inking. "The potion was made so that no visible symptoms could be detected. Instead of punishing him physically, like he did to her, she, in her cunning, created a potion to instead dim his mental faculties. Although this potion was meant only to weaken his mind to make him suggestible and pliant, there were unintended side effects."

Understanding went off in his mind like a bomb. White light and deafening sound. Merlin! He couldn't be serious. There was no way such rubbish could be true. Dumbledore might play his game close to the chest, hoarding all his information away, but there was just no way… He couldn't have poisoned him. He just couldn't have!

Slughorn seemed to understand his internal distress. He reached out a worn, tanned hand to rest upon Harry's shoulder, but Harry shied away before he could lay it on his shoulder, tumbling out the side of the chair in an attempt to get some space.

"He couldn't. He didn't. He just…" Harry didn't know what to say or do. His mind was filled with chaos. Deep down in his bones, he felt there was something to theses accusations, but at that moment it was all too much. He needed time. He needed space.

Looking over as Slughorn seemed to be getting ready to speak again, Harry cut him off. "I just… I need time. This is all too big for me to believe on the spot without evidence. I'm sorry. I don't know what you were expecting of me, but at the moment, I just can't believe it from an anonymous source."

Slughorn heaved a massive, weary sigh of disappointment that seemed to shake every inch of his body. But instead of getting angry or irritated as Harry thought he might, the man instead smiled a little sadly. "I understand completely and I realize that asking you to believe such a life changing declaration is too much for even the wisest of men. So instead, I ask that you accept two offerings that I have to give you as unbiased sources for you to think on." Slughorn passed him a small vial of kelpie green liquid and a moderately thick brown leather bound book. "These two items, I hope, will help you make your decision. The first is the antidote to the potion I truly believe you to be dosed with. The second is a book on mind altering potions of which includes information on _Mollis Mentis,_ as well as the directions for brewing its antidote."

"Take these things and consider them as you make your decision. Talk to a trusted adult, even. Anyone you believe in except Dumbledore, and if you begin to believe what I have told you is the truth, drink the antidote. If you are not under the affects of _Mollis Mentis,_ then nothing will happen. If you do choose to take the potion and you are, in fact, freed, I will have my owl waiting for you. Demeter, my speckled gray owl, will wait a week for a response after which time she will leave. I do this because I do not trust your owl not to be tracked, I'm sorry to say."

Harry was shocked into silence by the wealth of information quickly thrust upon him all at once. Even with a cloudy brain, he still was able to reach out and accept the shrunken potion and the book to place inside his pocket, and he followed Slughorn into the living room once again.

His mind was still in a daze when Dumbledore returned and asked some rather absurd questions about the knitting patterns that he had found in the loo. Harry almost wondered if Dumbledore would comment on his silence, but Slughorn distracted him by abruptly announcing that if Dumbledore kept insisting he would accept his old role back as Potions Master at Hogwarts.

"But," he bargained, "I want a raise." And after a slight pause he continued, "And Professor Merrythought's old office, not that bloody water closet I used to have."

And that was it; the two "old friends" shook on it and then Dumbledore led Harry out of the house and back onto the streets of Budleigh Babberton.

"I want to thank you, my boy, you have done both myself and the school a great service tonight," Dumbledore told him as they made their way back to the town square.

"I didn't really do anything to be honest, sir," Harry responded and then continued, "I didn't even know I was suppose to do something you never mentioned."

"I didn't say, but you did exactly what I needed anyway. You see, it is vital Horace returns to Hogwarts this year and you have made that possible." Dumbledore's praise did not particularly sound all that sweet to Harry's ears, especially now that doubt had been whispered into them.

"But truly, sir, what did I do, how could I make Mr. Slughorn come to Hogwarts when you say that you couldn't?" Harry pushed. He wanted answers. Why had they come here? And what had he done?

"Horace, if you did not know, is a collector. A collector of famous people and the one thing that was sure to get Horace to Hogwarts was the chance to be able to say he got to teach the famous Harry Potter," Dumbledore responded cheerfully as if he had just won a game of chess. In his mind, maybe he had.

In any case, Harry felt disgusted and sick, used. His voice thick from revulsion, he quietly asked, "And should I let him collect me?"

The resounding 'yes' made Harry's stomach roll and clench a thousand times worse than when Dumbledore Apparated to the field on the edge of the Burrow. Harry was left alone on the open grassy field stomach full of dread and disgust.

A noise broke him out of his reverie. A gray speckled owl swooped into a near by tree and stared at Harry with large yellow expectant eyes. It was then Harry knew that whatever choice he made in the next seven days would change his life forever. If only he knew which path would lead him to happiness.

- BBWO -

When Harry woke the next morning he woke with a plan.

The night before, he had been bombarded by an excited Weasley clan. All bigotries, laughter, and flailing arms. It seemed that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Weasley had known to expect Harry that evening.

A bit of resentment flared up at the thought of Dumbledore just discarding him wherever was convenient, but at least he wasn't with the Dursleys. For that - and that alone - Harry was thankful. A late supper full of wonderfully home cooked food was prepared just for him. Harry couldn't help but blush under such care.

In Harry's mind, food was synonymous with love. The Dursleys hated Harry. The Dursleys starved Harry. The Weasleys liked Harry. The Weasleys fed Harry. Simple logic.

The plan Harry had stayed up half the night to form was simple. When there was a moment of extended time where Harry could be alone, he would brew his own antidote potion, just so he was sure it was the correct potion.

That, of course, was not the part that had kept Harry up contemplating. It was, in fact, Slughorn's suggestion to talk it over with a trusted adult, and after long hours, Harry could not think of one. Remus was a no. After third year he'd seen hide nor hair of the man who was supposedly his father's best mate.

Neither Mr. or Mrs. Weasley were an option because although he liked and respected them, he couldn't imagine them humoring his doubts. Kinsley, Tonks, Mcgonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout were all eliminated for similar reasons. Snape was eliminated on the pure basis that the man hated him.

And so, Harry could not think of a single adult in which he could confide his lingering doubts; so once again, Harry was left to fend for himself. This time, there would be no "Golden Trio." Harry, under no circumstances, was going to involve them. This was just something Harry would have to do on his own.

Around the breakfast table, as Mrs. Weasley handed Harry a plate full of delicious food, the sound of owls taping on glass could be heard. For one heart stopping second, Harry almost believed that the strange owl, Demeter, had come to him at breakfast in full view of his best mate's family. He was so nervous that he almost dropped his full plate of breakfast.

"Careful there, mate," one of the twins warned him as he witnessed the almost toppling of his plate. Harry wasn't sure, but for some reason he was sure it was Fred who had warned him.

After a short moment of indecision, Harry replied, while picking up his spoon to eat, "Thanks for the heads up, Fred, but I got it."

Harry saw the look of confusing and almost panic that passed over Fred's face. "Sorry, I'm not Fred, Harry, I'm George," Fred tried to dent.

"If you're sure Fred," was Harry's only reply. Neither twin seemed to know what to say or do, so they continued to eat in silence. In fact, when Mrs. Weasley returned from getting the post, the whole table sat in silence.

"Hogwarts letters," Mrs. Weasley announced cheerfully, handing each of her children and Harry a thick parchment envelope. Inside, it contained the usual beginning of term letter, a list of supplies for each class, and the classes each student was assigned to take.

Harry sighed as he looked down at his list. It seems his 'E' in potions was not enough to be able to continue onto the NEWT level. Harry had never really wanted to be in the Advanced Potions class before, but now that there was a new teacher, it might have been different.

Either way, Harry was sure to have a busy year with six classes this year.

"Mommy, can we go to Diagon Alley today for our supplies, please?" Ginny pled. Harry could tell by her tone that the poor girl was desperate to get out of the house. Ron and the twins too seemed to be casting hopeful glances at their mother.

Mrs. Weasley, on the other hand looked torn, and Harry could tell by the way she occasionally glanced at him, that he was the problem.

"If you are going, Mrs. Weasley, do you think you could pick up my things for me? I still have some summer school work to finish and I would be able to get a lot done on my own," Harry explained calmly. This not only gave Mrs. Weasley the perfect excuse to keep Harry at home and "safe," but also left Harry alone long enough to look through his book and hopefully brew the antidote.

"What? Homework? Come on, mate! You can't be serious!" Ron complained. Harry could see that the red head was bummed but really this was the best solution all around.

"Homework is important, Ronald. You do have your work done?" Mrs. Weasley asked tersely. Seeing that his chances of an outing depended on his answer, Ron wobbled around the answer, more or less. Apparently his mother was in a pitying mood as she relented and promised to take all of the children, save for Harry, after they cleaned up.

Harry had never seen the Weasley children work in such harmony as he did then. He mostly felt like a clogged gear when he tried to help. Needless to say, breakfast was cleaned in record time.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry was waving goodbye as all five entered the fireplace one by one and disappeared in a flash of green flames. Suddenly, empowered by his freedom, Harry raced up the rickety wooded stairs, past grumbling portraits, to the room he shared with Ron. It was easy to find his jeans in the excessively orange Chudley Cannons colored room, even among the mess.

Inside his pocket were the shrunken vial and tome. The touch of skin seemed to make the charm wear off as both resized quickly in the palm of his hand.

The text was unsurprisingly heavy. Its smooth cold leather cover cooled Harry's clammy hands. Harry was about to check the back index for the antidote when he noticed a bookmark sticking out from within the pages. Turning to the right place Harry was shocked to see that the bookmark was in fact a miniature version of the picture Harry had seen at Slughorn's the previous evening. Inside the glossy photo film, Lily danced beneath a shower of autumn leaves, blowing kisses, kicking leaves and laughing hysterically.

It took sometime before Harry could find it in himself to look away. Vernon had destroyed the photo album Hagrid had given him after he'd sent Hedwig away. The loss was devastating, but saving Hedwig was worth it. Now, to at least to have one piece of his family…

Turning to the book Harry glanced down at the description written on the _Millis Mentis_ potion. It read:

_**This potion, created in the fourteenth century, was originally intended to dim the wit and learning curve of the victim. It also creates unhealthily dependence on those the victim views as superiors. The result is a pliant and dim loyal servant. It was made to not interfere with the victims magical reserves, but if taken for an extended period of time, there are several major side effects. The first is a distinct draining of magical reserves as the witch or wizard's internal core fights the potion's control. Second, the dependence can turn into obsessive obedience even when presented with evidence against the feeder. The potion is especially dangerous if it is taken for an inordinate amount of time, usually given to the victim before their magically maturity.**_

Harry stopped dead as dread filled him. It had to be a lie. There was no way he could be under the effects of a potion. He would know, wouldn't he? After all, he could throw off the Imperius curse, and that was an Unforgivable.

Slowly taking in all the steps to brew the antidote, Harry collected each and every one. Carrying both the book and his trunk full of his Potions equipment down the stairs to the kitchen was a feat. Each of step of the stairs jerked his still thin and undeveloped arms. Who knew carrying luggage could be so difficult?

By the time he reached the kitchen table, his arms were weak and sore with exhaustion. It was disgusting how much his muscles had atrophied. There had to be something he could do to fix the problem as soon as possible. Being weak, either mentally or physically, was not an option, what with such a large target on his back.

He set up his cauldron on the kitchen table, the only practical place available. One important thing Harry remembered to do before brewing was open all the kitchen windows wide so that the fumes could flow out and fresh air could funnel in. When reading the instructions, Harry had seen a warning that the potion created fumes that could knock the brewer unconscious if the room was not properly ventilated.

Preparing the ingredients was actually a soothing process without noisy classmates or an evil professor breathing down your neck. Harry could almost get into it and begin to understand what appeal the process of brewing might have.

That is, until his cauldron blew up.

Harry had no idea what was happening when the lime green liquid began to steam and bubble. The directions stated that it should be at a low bubbly simmer. The flames were not high, so that was not the problem.

Luckily for Harry, as he leaned down to inspect the flames just to be sure they were not overly kindled, the potion exploded. Being in a crouched position already allowed Harry to escape with only minor burns to his back. Each spot that the boiling green liquid hit exploded with pain as it seared his skin. Only a few drops actually landed on the back of his casual robes and seeped through which was a miracle.

But the kitchen, on the other hand, was totally covered in what seemed to be a rapidly cooling slime.

Harry cursed under his breath as he scowled at the mess. Cleaning it up would take the entire time the Weasleys were out shopping, if not more. There would not be time to try and create another potion. Therein lay the dilemma. He could either trust the words of a complete stranger or he could spend the rest of his life wondering.

Harry began cleaning up the mess as he thought on it. Did he believe what Slughorn had said was a true possibility? That was a quick answer to find wasn't it? He had just attempted to brew his own version of the antidote. Obviously, he held it with some degree of faith.

But how much faith? Was he really willing to take an unknown potion and a chance?

Cleaning as he thought made the process easier. For Harry, manual labor always helped him think. It was a trait he was almost certain he would never grow out of. After all, didn't he always find a way to survive in the midst of heated battle with evil teachers, mythical creatures, and dark lords?

It was a comfort to find that the water based potion he had been creating was actually easier to clean up than he anticipated. It was so easy that he finished with a half an hour to spare before he expected Ron and his family to arrive home. There was still not enough time to remake the potion, but there _was _time to take the potion, his mind supplied. More than enough time, in fact.

The thought was like cancer spreading through his head. Ever since Slughorn had uttered his first accusations, they had sprang to life inside of his mind and ran wild. Memories of all his adventures came to the forefront as his paranoia highlighted all the possible places Dumbledore's apparent betrayal could be seen.

Truly, Harry knew that it was always going to have to come down to this. Creating the antidote was just a stalling tactic, a way to protest that he tried. But ever since the miniature glass had been slipped into his fingers, Harry had subconsciously known that he could not rest if he had any doubt about his own free will. And so, he trudged up the stairs once again away from the now spotless kitchen. His now slime free trunk was once again under the window in the room he shared with Ron.

Opening the second compartment, where he had stored the potion and the book, Harry could only stop and stare. He couldn't believe he was actually going to do this. Obviously, his attempts at being a smarter Slytherin were going to be in vain.

The liquid green clashed horribly when held up in the orange paint room. Getting up quickly, Harry almost stumbled on his way out of the room. He couldn't take it there. It felt too much like betrayal. Taking the potion meant he lacked so much faith in Dumbledore that he was willing to take an unknown possibly harmful potion to prove it.

Could he really do this? Harry asked himself that same question again and again, over and over.

'Do it. Do it,' part of him whispered. 'No, it's a trap!' another part screamed.

Merlin! Looking under the light of the light blue walls of the bathroom, the potion did not seem to conflict so atrociously here. That seemed like a small kind of approval to him. Here in this room, the betrayal seemed less great, at the very least.

Harry sat on the very edge of the white porcelain tub as he uncorked the vial cap and he heard a hiss. Harry was unsure whether or not the potion itself made the noise or the trapped air being released created it. Either way, it was too late for doubts now. There was already one foot in the door.

The glass was cool as Harry pressed the rim to his lips. The liquid gave off a fairly acrid smell like sour fruit juice. Harry's left hand tightened in its grip on the edge of the tube.

This is it, Harry thought. This is the moment.

Harry swiftly knocked the vial of liquid back without a second thought and swallowed the small swig without really tasting it.

The moment after drinking was anticlimactic say the least. Harry was unsure what kind of change he was expecting, but the distinct lack of anything unnerved him. Springing to his feet, Harry found his body motions all to be in working order as expected. Maybe something in his appearance had changed. That was unlikely, since the potion was supposed to free him from some great mental restraint.

The mirror in the bathroom at the Burrow showed Harry exactly what he had expected to find: a small scrawny boy with large messy hair and a scar upon his forehead. Great waves of disappointment fell over him. It was silly, he supposed to wish to be poisoned but he just felt so foolish now. Of course Dumbledore hadn't poisoned him. Dumbledore was the good guy.

Suddenly, Harry's vision began to blur and the room spun out of control. His mind felt as if someone had increased the mass of his brain by two hundred percent and the extra weight was crushing his skull. All the extra pressure and vertigo caused him to collapse suddenly onto the cool tile floors. Harry whimpered almost pathetically as his brain was consumed by thoughts, emotions, and pain. Whenever Harry tried to clear his mind like Snape had instructed last year his brain only seized up more.

Then the mental pain turned physical.

The arcs of Harry's feet seared with pain as each one cramped up with tight taut muscles. His calves too stiffened and pain overloaded his tense nerves.

There was nothing Harry could do but writhe on the floor whimpering and moaning from the strong influxes of information overloading his brain and the pain that was clogging his nerves. Soon, each successive wave of pain dimmed, and Harry was left panting and drooling exhausted on the tile floor. Every muscle and bone turned to mush while his mind was still working in overdrive. Whatever had happened changed a lot. Instead of his usual quiet and calm train of single thought, inside his head was a traffic jam of thoughts all wanting to be at the forefront.

The noise of his own mind was deafening and Harry could only try to weakly block it out as his mind quickly span out of control.


	3. Chapter 3

**Here is the latest chapter of my story. I hope you all enjoy it! **

**Special thanks to my new beta LovelinessDecays who is super awesome and puts up with all my silly mistakes. She is currently editing Chapter One and Two also so when she finishes I will update those. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers you make my day.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything nor do I make money.**

Chapter Three

Harry awoke to a pile of his own drool.

His head ached with the cold seeping into his brain from the cool floor tiles as Harry tried to grasp what had happened. He had taken Slughorn's potion; of that much he was sure. The little empty glass vial lay to his right, rocking back and forth on the irregular flooring. In that memory, at least, he could trust. At the moment, Harry felt there were precious few memories that he could depend on. Falling unconscious had completed whatever strange process the potion had started.

His mouth tasted sour, and his tongue felt thick and lazy inside it. The muscles in both his arms and legs were tight and sore as if he had run a mile, dueled a hundred Death Eaters and their crazed leader all in one go.

But out of all his aches and pains, nothing compared to the all encompassing ache in his brain. Something in the chemistry of it must have changed. It felt like someone had flipped the whole organ upside down. Memories, with all their vicious detail, struggled and fought to be in the forefront of his mind. Each new thought hit his brain with ferocious accuracy. They pitched themselves at him in overwhelming numbers.

Stumbling forward to his feet, Harry tried to stand on weak and wobbly legs. It was mortifying, that his body had reached this point. Memories of his weakest moments emerged, trying to claim his attention.

Snape's venomous words cut through the din of all others and grasped his attention and he clung to them. 'Clear your mind.'

In the past, these words had only served to irritate and confuse him, but at the moment it made perfect sense. Pushing with all the mental might he could muster, Harry took all the pain, physical and mental, and used it to shove all his thoughts behind the wall of pain.

It wasn't a perfect solution, but it did seem stem the numerous memories attacking his mind.

The pain he used to discard the thoughts was a little more pronounced now, but Harry felt it was an even trade at the moment. All he wanted was to concentrate on getting up from the bloody floor and staying up.

For one perfectly vividly clear moment, Harry could hear Sirius's loud barking laughter. 'Come on, little prongslet, you can take those first steps.' His mind was probably malfunctioning, but this was the bit of encouragement Harry had needed as he took his first steps. They were labored, as if each ankle moved cinderblocks.

He fell into it and it became easier to cope, even with the protests of his body.

By the time Harry returned to his makeshift bed, he was exhausted to the point of collapse, and he fell face first onto the cushioned surface.

What was the problem? He had been tired before, but this was startling. After a few moments, his mind supplied him with an answer. The thought felt fuzzy and strange.

It was weird. One moment, he had no clue what was going on because everything was new and strange, and then there was an annoying itch inside his mind, a memory of a thought fighting to break free. It was the oddest feeling. The only way Harry could label it was as trying to remember something forgotten without a clue where to look inside your mind, rummaging for the thought that was emanating from everywhere and nowhere.

And then, as if it were clear like day, he remembered. There was no longer any resistance, only absolute clarity. Words rang through his mind, the same words he had read just this morning, but had obviously forgotten or skimmed over.

_**After the potion has been ingested, it will immediately start to break down all barriers that have been previously created. In some cases where the affected person has been dosed for a long time, taking the potion can result in physical fatigue that may last for some time. This occurs because the body must fight alongside the potion to break the stronger bonds that have been created. **_

_**Drinking the potion may also result in better memory retention and information absorption. It is possible that the potion does not cause memory and learning debilitation and instead hides the information gathered in a place the brain cannot easily access. It is thought because of this, memory does not atrophy but instead sharpens. **_

_**It has been found that in the first few hours, an overwhelming flood of memories returns to the drinker's conscious mind. If not checked, the strain can drive drinkers to insanity before they can completely recover. **_

Harry scowled at the thought of Slughorn giving him an antidote that just might drive him insane.

But after a moment, his newly traitorous mind spoke: _Slughorn provided you with all the information you needed on the potion. _

Harry still felt miffed that Slughorn gave him a book with the proper information when he knew Harry was practically incapable of remembering it. It was devious and honest at the same time.

Maybe that was how a true Slytherin worked.

In any case, it didn't matter. Now the only thing that was important was to control whatever was currently going on inside his mind. He had just remembered an entire paragraph from a textbook, which was pretty awesome, but the tidal wave of active memories battling for the forefront was definitely not.

The poorly constructed shield Harry had created was not permanent. He needed a solution and he needed it now, lest he be flooded once again.

Harry tried to concentrate solely on the lessons he had taken with Snape the year before, but other than that first gem, there was little information to be gathered. He would have to make his own way.

A fleeting memory of something he had seen that fateful day inside Snape's mind occurred to him just then. Just before he had been ejected, Harry caught a glimpse of a study filled with potions, books, scrolls, and all other manner of miscellaneous objects.

The intriguing thing about it all was that Harry, for whatever reason, could tell that it was a place that did not truly exist. He could not say why, except that it had a different feel to it, a feel that was both foreign and familiar in nature.

It was only just now that Harry realized that the place he had seen was, most probably, Severus Snape's mind. He didn't know why he had never thought of it before, but he guessed he could thank a certain potion for thinking of it now. Now, not only the image but the feel of it…

Harry's shaky grasp of the intuitive magic lit up like Christmas.

That definitely was what the place Harry had seen was. Now, enhanced by a quicker understanding and fresher memory, the idea of intuitively creating a representational place in which his memories were stored did not seem quite as daunting a task.

If he had understood what was being asked of him all those lessons ago, he might have managed. All there was now was finding it in himself to enter his own mind. The idea seemed invasive, but it was his own mind, so maybe it would not be quite as bad as when Snape had attacked it.

But how to do it?

After a few moments of contemplation, Harry decided the best way to start was to imagine the wall of pain and all the memories he blocked behind it - but in a physical form.

Closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, Harry tried to picture it.

Nothing happened.

He tried feeling it. Nothing but a more pronounced shot of pain hit him.

For almost a half hour, Harry tried to find that place using his senses. The problem was that imagining something he had no information about was counterproductive.

He was about to give up when a rumble of feet below alerted him that the Weasleys were home.

In his current state, there was no way he would be able to go down and greet them. He didn't want them to worry and fuss over him, so instead he decided to pretend that he was asleep while he continued to try and create his mental landscape. Although he didn't admit it, even to himself, he knew that he did not want to explain what Dumbledore had done to him.

In the back of his mind a question still lingered: how had he been dosed?

"Hey mate!" Ron exclaimed, entering loudly. "We got all your supplies for this year and mum even took us to Honeyduke's, so I had her get your favorite¾"

It took quite a while, but by the abrupt stop in Ron's one sided conversation, it was obvious he had just seen him.

For a few minutes, there was silence and Ron seemed to struggle, not knowing what to do, but after a bit, the door opened and then shut with a muffled thunk.

Obviously, his ginger haired friend was allowing him the time to nap.

It felt a bit wrong to be only pretending to sleep, but until his body was strong enough to move without creating suspicion, it seemed that deceit would be necessary. At this point, Harry didn't want to involve anyone who didn't already know.

As his unwanted guilt began to dissipate, Harry once again focused on finding that room within his mind.

He'd already tried to visualize it, feel it, hear it - Hell, on a whim, he had even tried to imagine its scent. Nothing had worked.

For a moment, he was stumped, unable to decide how to continue the exploration of his mind, but after some deliberation, Harry decided that instead of feeling around for something that should be there, he would try to feel what was there already.

Starting with the pain which seemed the most prominent, he let his mind ease as he slowly tested the pain within his mind. He tried to judge its depth and width without disturbing it, slowly feeling it in little bits comparing it to other types of pain he had experienced in his life, just examining what there was to feel in an effort to create a greater understanding that might help him enter his own mind.

His conscious thoughts lulled away, and after a length of time that Harry could not measure, he brushed against something that felt different, more pliable.

He increased the mental pressure and it seemed to give way, taking Harry with it.

Harry opened his eyes to see that he was no longer in Ron's horribly orange room but instead standing in front of a wall that was translucent and black. It gave off slight hissing warnings and looked quite ominous.

And he felt no pain whatsoever. He was completely with in his own mind and had left his body and all its pains behind. The lack of pain took a huge weight off him and Harry felt better than he had all summer.

He studied the shadowy wall and Harry found if he concentrated hard enough, he could see through it clear to the other side.

Behind the barrier was a massive pile of… junk, a collection of clutter that looked like it belonged at a landfill rather than in the clean, lightly lived in study that was Snape's mentalscape.

There were no semblance of walls that ended the space and so, the piles of rubbish seemed to stretch on into forever.

Harry was struck by the number of memories he apparently had. The Monster Book of Monsters, busted glasses and toy soldiers, rotten food, dirty dish towels, inky parchment, broken brooms, piles of textbooks… those were only some of the things that could be seen eating up all the space.

Just seeing the amount of… _stuff_ was tiring. How would he ever have the time to clean up this mess?

Racking his brain on how to start, Harry decided that since he was technically inside his mind, he should have to power to do as he pleased. Hadn't he heard something once to the effect of mind over matter? Shouldn't that be truer in any place than his own mind?

Now that he had a base to work with, Harry got to work, quickly deciding that the mental block should stay until most of the clean up had been completed. He needed to get to the other side.

Since it was, of course, his own mind, he simply imagined there was an opening in the wall big enough for him to creep through. With enough mental will, one appeared. Harry slipped through the opening and let it to return to normal.

Harry was very careful not to touch any of the objects that were lying on the floor in his mind, afraid that just touching something that represented a memory would cause him to experience it.

After a few moments, Harry decided that it was silly to avoid touching things. He had to do _something_ to clean this mess up, after all.

A test. He would test something. He looked for the most innocent object he could find, and settled on a little toy train that was modeled after the Hogwarts Express. His hand connected with the shiny red paint of the toy and whisked him into a memory.

"_My name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."_

Harry could feel himself goggle as he watched the infamous first meeting between himself and Malfoy.

This time, with a more critical eye and a third person perspective, Harry saw something he had never seen before. The younger version of himself snubbed the young Malfoy, who had not perfected the Malfoy mask; his face tinged pink and his eyes flashed with visible hurt.

Feeling his fingers still brushing against the toy even though he could not see it, Harry removed his fingers and the memory dissolved like a dream, leaving nothing behind but for his guilt.

Seeing the younger boy look so distraught… Harry knew that Malfoy was an outrageous prick, but the choices that were made…

Harry forcibly stopped thinking about it and returned to figuring out how to move the bloody objects. After a while, he decided that this time, he would to try and pick up the object while specifically mentally blocking the memory.

Picking up the train again seemed like the best idea since he already determined nothing vicious awaited him. Harry reached for the toy and concentrated on blocking the memory from whisking him away.

For a moment, it felt as though in spite of his mental urgings, the memory would take him away, but with some effort, Harry prevented it. Fully grasping the train and examining it, he realized it was an exact miniature to at least the head car.

Harry was empowered by this small success until he found his next problem.

There was way too much stuff. No matter how much rearranging Harry did, there was no way Harry would be able to marginally reduce the amount of space being taken up. Stumped, Harry mapped out strategies for organization, but they all did little to reduce the amount of hogged space.

Harry was on the verge of despairing when he thought of what Snape's mental place had looked like. It had looked like a room, not piles of junk in open space. It couldn't always have looked that way, so Harry assumed there must be some way to change the representational object.

This thought pleased him, but what to change it to? Each one obviously contained one memory to whatever he changed each object to… had to be tiny.

What to do? He roved through the make shift aisles looking for inspiration. Nothing seemed to be small enough yet diverse enough to hold a separate memory for each.

Then it hit him.

No one object could ever be small enough, but a word could be. There were thousands of words in just one book. There were millions of different words to be had. Many synonyms could be used for similar memories. It was perfect. He could create a library of memories so that everything was clean and organized.

Harry was still unable to determine how he would go about do all this organizing, but just having the idea gave him hope. He _was_ tired and it would be best to retreat from his mind if at all possible.

One thing caught his attention and gave him pause as he was looking for the exit. Somewhere to his left, there was rustling. Harry was intrigued mostly because none of his objects seemed to be representations of living things, and since Harry's arrival to his mindscape, the memories' chaotic natures seemed to have quieted down.

Harry crept over to where the noise seemed to be originating. He felt stupid for acting so suspicious inside his own head, but he did have some memories that were less than pleasant.

Now that Harry thought about it, he had yet to encounter the objects that were formed by his memories of Voldemort and his minions.

With that thought, Harry's efforts to remain stealthy until he had discovered the cause of the noise doubled.

No, he did not want to relive Voldemort's resurrection in blinding detail again. Thank you, but no.

Nearing the source of the sound, Harry hid behind a giant harp and concentrated on not letting any memories surface. Harry peeked around the corner, but could only discern that whatever it was, it happened to be tan and moving.

Unsurprisingly, this discovery did not inspire hope.

Ignoring his better judgment, Harry decided he had to have a better look. Harry tried to mute his footsteps as he avoided all sorts of miscellaneous objects. There was a rusted out pan that he had almost tripped over and miniature swap up ahead on his left that he almost walked right into. It was surprising that he had not smelled it before he had seen it. The smell of rotting leaves, dirty water, and moss filled his nose.

Not for the first time, Harry had to wonder how much of his mind space was real and how much of it was imagined. Although he couldn't vouch for Snape's hideaway, Harry found the longer he traversed his own, the more he felt that the pieces of his memories created a reality all of its own. Here in his mind was a place full of sights, sounds, and smells. He could touch anything and everything and even though the decor left much to be desired, there was an easy calm that Harry found he could slip into without trouble.

But if this new creature turned out to be a wild beast intent on eating his flesh, Harry decided he would definitely have to reconsider his assessment.

The creature could move at a frightening speed. Harry began to apprehend during his chase that the limits of his human body held no sway inside his mind. He could reach any speed, jump any height, and see even though the dim and shadows that shrouded each separate stack.

Harry still felt a sharp slice of fear cut through him when he considered the possibility of his query being connected to his distasteful memories of Voldemort, but he felt exhilarated during the chase. Thousands of objects flew past his eyes. There seemed no limit to the amount of space available to him. He had to wonder, from the sheer number of things, if it was at all possible for him to have retained complete access to all his memories. The idea thrilled him, but he put away the thought for further investigation at another time.

Right now, he was focused on discovering exactly what had such free range within his mind.

From what Harry had seen, the mysterious being was tan or brown in color, had sleek fur that seemed to catch the light as it slunk in and out of shadows. Harry's body could match the animal stride for stride, trailing only meters behind, but when Harry attempted to increase his speed, so did his prey.

Locked in to the race, he realized that he'd have to do more than chase to catch up. Harry's mind blanked - and then he wanted to kick himself in the head.

Maybe in this reality, he really could kick himself in the head, but either way, he halted his movement and berated himself for his own stupidity. Ron's once sarcastic remark found its way into Harry's ears once again.

'Are you a wizard or aren't you?"

He couldn't help but stand and laugh at his own stupidity. Just picturing what he must have looked like sent him over the edge with mirth. There he was, chasing a blasted beast for who knows how long, running around like a savage when he could have easily stunned it.

Sometimes, Harry wondered how he had lived in the Wizarding World for so long and still acted like a Muggle. While it was true that he did not have a wand currently on his person, and he had not yet try to create magic in this irregular place, Harry was sure that here, in one of the most central places of his being, magic would be simpler.

Since Harry's abrupt stop, his target had disappeared from view. Scanning the landscape for any movement, Harry felt sure that his objective was near.

Harry quieted his breathing and lightened his steps until he moved almost silently, closing his eyes and allowing his mind to clear completely. Opening his senses, Harry was struck by how much he could sense and how much he could block out.

In the outside world, whenever Harry tried to open himself completely to the magic, he was overwhelmed with sensory overload. The ambient magic of the Wizarding World was too much for his mind to handle. But in his own mind, Harry found that he could limit his senses. In this case, he narrowed his vision to living things. His target lit up like a beacon. Harry found he was correct in his earlier assumption that his mindscape was generally made up of inanimate objects.

Quickly scanning the many piles of junk littering the ground, all the objects seemed to pale into shades of gray. Only his target retained any colors in his eyes. A pale orange halo of light surrounded the beast. Its tan fur, in the auburn light, shone warm, almost inviting in its monochromatic landscape.

A slow smile slid across Harry's face as he realized exactly what he had been chasing. With his improved eyesight, Harry recognized the lean powerful form of a cougar.

For a moment, Harry felt a spike of fear trickle down his spine until his common sense kicked in. This was his mind and his space. Nothing could hurt him here. Right? Without his wand, Harry felt vulnerable in the presence of such a powerful creature.

But this moment was for confidence, not for doubt. He imagined power surging from the pit of his stomach up to his chest, down his arm, until it was tingling and fizzling out his finger tips in red hot light.

The stunning spell danced off his finger tips and skidded through the air, leaping toward its target. For one spellbinding moment, the cougar was turning, its amber eyes flashing in recognition at Harry, and he believed that maybe the creature might dissipate into thin air.

Although the lean cat's muscular body twisted in the air as it launched itself in a last ditch attempt to escape, the spell zipped through the air faster and it caught the cat in midair.

It fell with a thump.

A small trickle of guilt inched its way through Harry's veins as he watched the creature fall. Even though this being was only alive inside his mind, his attack still seemed like an attack on nature itself.

Harry approached the downed beast as dispassionately as possible. The still form's only noticeable move moment was its barely moving chest.

As he moved closer, Harry noticed something was off. The fur which had seemed so shiny and smooth from a distance was really matted and slightly bloody in some places. His muscles were lean and smooth still, but on closer inspection, the bones of its rib cage were clearly visible and its muzzle was darkened and dirty.

The new image Harry encountered was disturbing, to say the least. It was a head trip to see his perception could be so slanted. And more disturbing than that was the fact that his abused and malnourished cat was, in fact, a representation of one of his memories. What part of his past could conjure this?

Harry wished he could say nothing came to mind, but he knew that was untrue. The guilt Harry had felt before was back in full force. Maybe it was the fact that Harry knew what it felt like to be downtrodden, or that he always wanted to support the underdog, but Harry knew unquestionably that he would have to do something.

Searching for any invisible wounds, Harry began channeling his power and will through his body.

For long minutes, nothing appeared to be happening, even though soft blue light spilled from his hands. Five minutes passed and still, nothing.

He felt sadness that he could not explain weighing down his stomach. Pushing more power, more intent, into the task seemed to make some difference. His mind was quiet, like everything else, and it seemed like forever.

And then in the blink of an eye, everything changed. A eardrum shattering roar erupted from his patient as magic surged through Harry and the cougar in opposite directions.

The spell broke and all magic holding the cat dissipated. And without any more restraints, it shook its fur into order before bounding away silently.

Harry was left standing alone, shocked and awed.

Finding his way out of the maze that was his own mind was actually easier than he anticipated. He found himself in a daze as he left.

The cougar, an illustration of a memory, seemed to be sentient, which was strange and contradictory. What on earth could his cat be? Harry had a few ideas that were less than reassuring. The malnutrition and wounds hit closer to home than he had expected. Although some people might have believed that everything Harry had done was just a waste of time, Harry felt his actions were important.

Even though his cat was not flesh and blood, the cat was part of his mind and healing the cat meant he was healing himself.

Leaving his mind was like waking up through a dense fog. His limbs were still asleep thick and heavy with sleep. The lumpy little cot Harry had rested on was causing kinks in his back.

Harry's eyes rolled in disgust as he remembered that the text foretold he would be feeling this way for sometime. Rolling out of bed to the floor was more challenging than he thought it would be. With all his limbs still sleeping, all his movements were cumbersome and sloth-like, but there was one thing that drove him on.

Harry was not sorry to say that it was not the thought of company that enticed him into moving, but rather the delicious smell of food steaming hot with a Warming Charm. The thick creamy potatoes, steamed carrots and roasted chicken were mouth watering.

The taste of fresh food even after a few full meals was still one of the best in the world. The mixture of spice and warm heated up his skin and awoke his muscles. Harry couldn't hold back his appreciative humming. Food was one of the few things Harry truly treasured. Clothes were unimportant. Objects were temporary. But food was strength, the will to fight another day.

And then it happened. Harry could not be sure what exactly what was happening until it was too late.

His mind rebelled. It slowed down to a screeching halt, where it seemed even the simplest math could evade him, then sped up into overdrive. His thoughts ran wild, lashing out at the mental wall he had created only that morning. The cycle continued, his brain pounding with exhortation until Harry thought he might die.

The pain was indescribable, ten thousand times worse than taking the antidote. Before he could stop himself, Harry was sick and lost all his food. The plate on his lap toppled over. Extreme spasms racked his body as his body fought the invading poison.

Lying on the floor weak and drained for the second time that day, Harry could not quell his dawning horror. There was only one reason why he would have such an extreme reaction.

In his first moment of pure comprehension, Harry felt more nauseous than he had ever felt in his entire life. The deep sick of betrayal filled him and he lay unmoving, unable to find the will to move. Even as footsteps on the stairs moved closer and closer, he did not move.

It was only when the door to Ron's atrocious room opened that Harry shifted from his spot on the floor. He turned his body to face Molly as she entered… and promptly emptied his stomach again.


	4. Chapter 4

**If anyone read what I posted like a half an hour ago then you just read the completely unedited version *face palm* oops. If you are just reading it now then your really lucky lol.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything as always.**

**Huge thanks to my beta Loveliness Decays who not only makes my ideas more readable grammatically she also makes them look so much prettier ****J**

**I hope you all enjoy the chapter and if you are a little confused by some people's actions then good I'm doing my job right :D **

**Thanks to all those how have reviewed, favorited, and added alerts to my story each one inspires me greatly and fills me with warm fuzzy feelings. Sorry this is a little late, hopefully I can get the next one out to you faster…. Hopefully J I'm going to try my best. **

Chapter Four

After Harry's unfortunate lapse, the Burrow flew into a flurry of activity. Mrs. Weasley reacted with speed and direction. She called out concise orders to each of her still unaware children. Fred was directed to firecall Saint Mungo's as fast as possible. Ginny was to bring a batch of clean towels and a pitcher of cool water, and Ron was to assist in cleaning up the mess.

Before Harry really had time register what had happened, he was already bundled in the strangle hold of quilts on his colt while Mrs. Weasley fussed at him with cool rags and tender hugs. Never had Harry felt so sick to his stomach. The blatant hypocrisy was almost too much to comprehend. Each rag felt clammy on his already blistering hot skin, each hug hollow and repulsive. All Harry could do was hope and pray that sooner rather than later, the… _blood traitor_ would leave.

Harry meant the curse in the most literal way possible. In Harry's experience as an orphan, no other woman had barged her way into his life with motherly goodness and reproach before. Now her watery eyes did nothing to influence his heart. It seemed that at the moment Harry realized that she had betrayed him, the line that had connected her to his heart was completely severed.

How had this happened? What made a person betray their family? Harry had to wonder then if he had ever been a part of their family. Had he really been Molly's seventh son? Had Ron and Fred and George been his brothers?

Everything Harry had believed was now put into question. Each truth Harry had believed was put under a microscope to be scrutinized with a cold, indifferent heart.

The healer Fred had summoned appeared quickly. His professional attitude and curt responses suited Harry's mood. His name was Hippocrates Smethwyck and he was exactly what Harry needed. Within fifteen minutes, it was declared that Harry's reaction was a direct result of the extreme malnutrition he was suffering. The man neither commented or questioned as he relayed his diagnosis, but for a moment Harry thought he caught the man staring inquisitively at him.

His stare was dissimilar to the normal stares, gawks, and glares Harry ordinarily received. Smethwyck had a long lean face that was remarkable for its undefined shape. From forehead to chin, no jaw line or high cheek bones interrupted its long flat plane. The only defining features was the man's wide flat nose and small marble blue eyes. Each eye was keen and active, with rings of navy and pale blues in an otherwise impassive face. His pasty face and dark circles made it obvious that this man worked for his living and then some more. Oddly enough, that made Harry feel comfortable around the Healer even when he was blatantly lying.

At first, Harry was completely convinced of this Healer's credibility. Molly had mentioned in reassuring tones as she petted his hair that this was the man who had saved Arthur two years previous. But as the check up continued, it became obvious that either this healer was a complete imbecile or there was an external source guiding his actions. The only question was whether that force was Dumbledore or Voldemort. Harry found that after a bit of contemplation he didn't care which it was. Luckily for him, this Healer Smethwyck was playing right into his hand.

Harry greatly disliked discussing his home life and what occurred there, but at this moment it was the lesser of two evils. It was that or explain that he had a violent reaction to the poison they had so thoughtfully contaminated his food with. So when Smethwyck had informed Molly that Harry only needed rest and nutrition potions, he had agreed with the man wholeheartedly.

"I'll be alright in a few days, Mrs. Weasley. You know what it's like for me at the Dursleys…" Harry trailed off evasively. "You know I bounce back fast. In a couple of days I'll be as good as new. You'll see."

Whether it was Harry's encouraging tone or his mention of the Dursleys that got her to stop all objections, Harry was unsure, but in the long run it mattered little.

After that, she left Harry and let Ron in to visit.

"Five minutes only," she asserted once more before she closed the door leaving both boys in a tense silence.

Neither boy knew what to say. Harry maintained his silence because he was still wary and unsure whether or not Ron indeed knew his family's ugly secret. Ron, on the other hand, seemed to be only struggling because he was an awkward teenage boy unsure how to show his affection.

At least that was what Harry assumed. There were many lingering doubts in his mind about the validity of their friendship. Especially after reviewing his first memory of the Hogwarts Express.

"Are you - " Ron's voice seemed to crack and he had to pause a moment to compose himself.

Harry, taking pity on him, answered the unspoken question. "I'm alright. Healer says I'll be good as new in a couple days." Harry tried to smile at him, but his lips didn't seem to work that way, so he settled on a matter of fact tone and neutral expression.

"That's… great, mate," Ron responded dully.

Harry realized that this conversation was going nowhere fast. It was obvious that Ron was all ears when Harry had a grand adventure to tell in the hospital. But when he was sick by ordinary means, Ron was unable to respond. Harry had to wonder whether this was a symptom of his awkward nature or Ron harboring a secret.

But Harry wasn't in the mood to deal with either, so he explained that he was really tired and wanted to rest. Ron put up no resistance and quickly left the room.

Harry spent an undetermined amount of time laying on his cot staring at the ceiling. He wanted to sleep, enter his own mind, or meditate, but he was too restless. These thoughts were still rattled from his reaction to the potion, which had clashed with the new barrier Harry had created, and inside, a battle of will was fought.

It seemed that the pain directed to protect his mind was stronger than any potion could be.

The only problem was that Harry was sure that given enough time, the potion would once again win out. He had no solution. The only idea he had was to forgo eating anything and thus avoid the potion altogether.

Could he last that long? It had already been two months of sparse meals. Could he handle another month till Hogwarts? Could he fool the Weasleys into believing that he was, in fact, too ill to handle any food? Could he make them believe it and not take him to Saint Mungo's.

There were too many variables and so many problems to overcome.

Harry didn't know _how_ he'd survive the summer; all he knew was that he _had_ to survive the summer. He had to return to Hogwarts without anyone the wiser, and from there, he could make longer contingency plans.

And Hermione… he had to think about Hermione. Harry had overheard Mrs. Weasley telling Ron that she would be arriving the next morning. Hermione would notice if he was faking his illness or not.

Harry loved his friendship with Hermione. But even so, he was unsure if she would believe the incredible truth. Could she turn her back on the Weasleys, the only Wizarding family she had, with him? It was something to consider.

The only concrete plan Harry could come up with on the spot was to contact Slughorn immediately.

Tonight might be his only chance. If he was indeed going to purposely starve himself to stay sane this last month, he would have to have provisions ready for him as soon as he returned to school.

Harry didn't know the time, but he knew for sure it was after midnight. Ron had gone to bed some hours ago in the trundle bed above him.

Harry's hands fumbled around blindly in the darkness, trying to find a scrap of paper to write his note on. Ron might have been a light sleeper, but Harry was unwilling to risk opening his trunk next to the ginger's head.

After crawling around on the floor for several minutes, Harry finally found what he was looking for. The paper was slick on one side, matte on the other.

Harry left the room clutching the quill and ink bottle he had snatched from Ron's unused desk along with what appeared to be a flyer for a Chudley Cannons game.

His materials weren't the best of materials, but they would have to do. At times like these, Harry missed simple ball point pens, but he very much doubted the Wizarding World could handle the revolution. And for what it was worth, Harry actually liked the strange quirks and older ways it had.

Traveling down the stairs of the Burrow was like trying to avoid a field of mines. Each stair was made out of spare pieces of wood that were a little unstable and completely noisy. The hairs on the back on Harry's neck stood straight up as creak after agonizing creak sounded from the dodgy stairs. It also seemed that leaning some on his weight on the railing as he walked was unacceptable, because in one place, the whole bar shifted.

After ten minutes of fancy footwork, Harry made it down to the kitchen, only to stop dead in his tracks.

There, sitting in the enormous kitchen, were Molly and Arthur, quietly chatting and holding hands.

There was what Harry had once seen in his mind: a mother and father trying to get by, to care for the children they had - and those they did not.

Now, Harry was jaded. Their smiles were not gentle and kind any longer; they were only hungry for money, for that was the only reason his mind could provide for such a betrayal.

Harry found he could not even look at them. He turned away, sunk into the living room and scrawled his note in the dark.

_**Slughorn.**_

_**I do not have much time, but I have found that I understand and subscribe to your point of view on the subject we spoke of. Since I am currently away, I will be unable to provide more thoughts on the matter. I ask you give me sustenance for my mind and body, as all knowledge is. I find myself unable to enjoy to the fullest that has been given to me at my current residence. Anything you may be able to provide would be much appreciated.**_

_**Potter**_

He was loathed to do it… but he wrapped the beautiful picture of his mother tightly in the Chudley Cannons advert and sealed it. It felt wrong to send away the last piece of his parents, but Harry knew that Slughorn would need proof that he was being contacted by the right person.

Slughorn would return a letter with his own confirmation.

Watching his note fly away made it extremely difficult to be confident. In those talons was his only chance for help. He could only hope that nothing would delay or intercept it. Until he received a letter of confirmation, Harry knew he was completely on his own in a house full of potential threats.

All Harry could do was go back to bed and try and sleep through it all.

- BBWO -

Hermione had already arrived by the time Harry woke the next morning.

Or perhaps not morning; he had slept clear through breakfast and lunch, which pleased him immensely. This was a good start. He was sure that given time someone would notice, but it was still a good start.

Hermione was sitting by his side reading _Complex Forms of Opposite Intersecting Magic _by Lloyd R. P. Fowler. Harry couldn't contain his fond chuckle.

Hermione tackled him into a giant hug - and then immediately regretted it, as she remembered that he had been sleeping the day away because he was indeed quite sick. Her face burned slightly pink and for a moment, she seemed a bit overwhelmed and unable to speak, but she quickly regained the composure that her impulsive actions had stolen from her.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, finding her voice. "I've missed you so much this summer. I went to France for a few weeks and return to find you bedridden. Really, Harry, I didn't realize how helpless you were." She was joking, but Harry could hear the true hint of worry that laced her words. Her bright smile seemed to falter slightly when he stared back at her. For a moment, Harry was afraid she was going to cry. But her bottom lip only quivered a moment before firming up, and then she was smiling at him brightly.

It was then Harry was sure that she wasn't involved in the slightest. The raw emotion she displayed was more than enough of an answer.

Still, Harry knew that until he had tested the waters to see where her true loyalty lay, he had to be careful when determining whether or not he could tell her the complete truth.

"You know me," Harry said lightly.

Then, out of nowhere, her fist flew at him with vicious speed, slamming into his shoulder. "Why didn't you write me?" Each word was punctuated with less force until she stopped, out of breath and words. Her head hung low, and her hair long curly hair covered her face, completely curtaining it.

Obviously, she was affected by his sickness even more than he had previously anticipated, if the slight shaking of her shoulders was any indication.

Harry was completely frozen. He'd rarely dealt with crying girls before. The last one had been Cho, and… well, it was obvious how that one had turned out.

But if the movies Aunt Petunia liked to watch were any indication, women liked to be held and comforted when they cried. He figured he could just skip the kissing crap that was usually at the end of the scene; just the thought of kissing Hermione disgusted him almost as much as the thought of kissing Ginny did. They were both like family to him… although Harry was unsure where any of the Weasley family now stood.

In any case, the thought of kissing either of them was repulsive and wrong… so wrong. And Harry, if he was not mistaken, knew Hermione liked Ron, so there would be no problems there.

Harry reached out shaking arms in an unsure embrace and gently pulled her down from her chair. She followed willingly, boosting his confidence, and he pulled her close, resting her bushy head under his chin as he rubbed her back and mumbled soothing words.

This seemed to work to a certain extent, but it would be best to explain to Hermione his experience at the Dursleys. She, as a lover of fact, would be more comforted by fact than weak platitudes of 'there there' and 'it's okay.'

"I would have told you." Harry explained softly still holding her close as she sobbed out her worry and concern for him as well as her hurt over her ignorance of his suffering. "I swear I would have told you. But you know what their like. You were in France and I had to send Hedwig away. There was nothing you could have done for me."

There was a incoherent mumble until Harry realized that was Hermione explaining, with her mouth smashed against his shoulder, that she and her parents could have called the Muggle police.

"You know Dumbledore would never allow that. Stupid blood wards and all," Harry reassured her, tone more chilling than necessary, but he figured in this state, she wouldn't take note of it. He then reminded himself to be extra careful about what and how he said things around her. She was the most observant of them all.

It was then Hermione said the one thing that gave Harry hope for the future and shocked him to the core.

"Screw Dumbledore."

Before Harry could respond, the door opened.

"Harry, I know you've been feeling sick, mate, but Mum said that - " Ron froze, unable to speak. His eyes roved over the image of Harry and Hermione, taking it in for all its detail. His lips tightened, his brow furrowed and a hard glint entered his blue gray eyes and any air of friendship vanished from the room.

"Well, you're obviously not that sick if you have company." The way he said the word 'company' while sneering had both Harry and Hermione visibly flinching in response.

Hermione released her death grip on Harry's shirt and Harry released the embrace around her thin shoulders. She turned around, but Ron would not even look at her.

"Ron… It's not what you think." Her voice was small and wobbly, as if she feared he would lash out at her at any moment. Tears fell freely from her eyes, and her cheeks were red and streaked black with what appeared to be makeup.

_Hermione tries to make herself more attractive for the sod and he goes jumping to the wrong conclusion like always._

Sometimes Harry just wanted to strangle him.

"Ron, she was crying!" Harry exclaimed.

But it made no difference. Ron still left in a huff without even looking at Hermione. His long form was hunched and his jaw was tight with unspoken anger. Hermione was left staring at the door, silent and despairing, and Harry was left with having to pick up the pieces Ron left of her.

Harry had to wonder if her love for him was worth the pain his impulses put her through.

- BBWO -

Dinner was a tense affair.

Everyone, even those not privy to the unspoken argument, was feeling the tension. Harry was tense because this was the first meal he had to join in on. With a full table, and the twins present, he was unsure if he would be able to pull off his plan.

Earlier that day, while the rest of the table had been out doing chores for Mrs. Weasley and Harry had been resting, he managed to slip away and steal a whole tin of Puking Pastilles. He had found them at the back of the twins' closet, so it was unlikely that the red-haired duo would notice they were missing.

Unfortunately, they were from the back of their closet, which meant they were probably some of the stronger prototypes.

Harry prepared himself for this outcome by picking the seat closest to the bathroom, where he could hopefully escape and take the reverse pill. The other positive negative was that Harry had eaten nothing since his last incident, so it was unlikely that there was much to toss.

Sitting at the table, Mrs. Weasley passed around mismatched and chipped plates and glasses. It was like being in the calm before the storm… until a thought occurred to him.

She couldn't poison her own family! All he had to do was serve himself! He could actually eat!

Harry's excitement must have been permeable, because Mrs. Weasley asked, "Are you feeling better, dear? You're looking brighter already." She smiled and Harry wanted to believe her, but he knew that it was impossible.

"I'm very hungry, ma'am. Very much ready for dinner," Harry responded as cheerfully as he could, even though none of the mirth reached his eyes. She smiled and everyone began to take their fill.

Ron moodily stirred the bowl of potatoes around, staring into its depths as if it contained the answer to life. Harry helped himself to a bit of everything as it was passed around the table. Grinning at his plate, Harry was just about to dive in when Mrs. Weasley scooped it right out from under him and bustled off to the kitchen with it.

"Just going to get you some salt, dear," she called over her shoulder as she calmly exited with his pure uncontaminated food.

Harry wanted to pout, but that would cause questions. Truly, what he wanted to do was grab the spoon and start eating out of the serving bowl, but he figured that might blow his cover.

A petulant Harry stared out at the quaint looking dining area, wondering if all its woodland charm and quirks were fake only now or if it had always been that way. The clock chimed seven times, merrily mocking him as he saw eight spoons all firmly planted on the home section. Three were slanted toward work.

It made Harry's heart clench to remember the previous summer, when Mrs. Weasley had asked both Hermione and Harry if she could create spoons for each of them. She always wanted to know they were safe - or so she said. In Harry's now paranoid mind, that meant she always wanted to know what he was doing.

Looking at the cheerful little clock, Harry resented Mrs. Weasley more than ever.

As Mrs. Weasley returned with his plate, Harry didn't even both trying to fake eating any of it. He discreetly popped half of the pastille in his mouth and instantly became overcome with sickness just as she set the plate down in front of him.

Later, he would tell her that something about the smell made him sick to his stomach, and remained indifferent when hurt flashed across her face.

- BBWO -

It had been four weeks since Harry had eaten a full meal, three weeks since he had overheard Mrs. Weasley firecalling Dumbledore over her concerns over his being allergic to his special potion, two weeks since Harry and Hermione stopped trying to say more than a few words to Ron, and one week since Hermione attached herself to his side in the hopes she could heal his sickness.

All in all, the summer had been one of the worst, which was saying something when he only had the summer with the Dursleys to compare it to.

Between the few bits of food Hermione could coax him to eat off her plate and the nutrition potions from both Mrs. Weasley and Slughorn, Harry had managed to survive a little worse for wear.

The problem with his faked malnourishment was that it worked too well. At this point, even though he desperately wanted to gorge himself, the sight and smell of food disgusted him, which was why Hermione could only coax him to eat a few bits from her plate. Harry belatedly realized that this, to Ron, was a confirmation of his suspicions, but when he got to that point, Harry was not in much of a position to do much about it.

Over the last month, Harry had corresponded with Slughorn regularly sneaking out at night to take his potions. Although they mailed each other regularly, little could be said about their conversations. Both were equally paranoid of interception, and so their letters were mostly filler. Anything important had to be said in a clever roundabout manner; and that was still a huge risk, especially now that Slughorn resided within the castle.

Now, it was the night before he returned to Hogwarts; and as he had done for the past few weeks, Harry lay on his cot and entered his mind space once again. He had made sure to do so every night in order to organize his thoughts and strengthen the barrier of his mind. The cleanup was progressing well; about half the space had been cleared and changed into novels.

Harry found that if he concentrated hard enough, he could will his mind to do anything. Transforming the objects into words in books was easier than one would expect. It was just time consuming, given the numerous memories his mind had hung onto. From what he had seen, there was nothing he had forgotten.

Luckily, Harry did not experience each memory as he changed it. He found that just by picking it up he could get a feel for what it was made of, and without thought or hassle, he could send it zipping off to the correct book with its own unique word as a title.

Another thing Harry had been able to accomplish over the month long tour of his mind was the healing of the cougar. What had once been a shabby and mangy animal was now a lean, proud and _magnificent_ creature. The process through which Harry had to complete to restore it had been long and vigorous. He was unsure of why this particular aspect of his mind required so much intensive healing and magic thrown at it to restore it.

The one time had tried to transform the cougar like he had with all the other objects inhabiting his mind had ended violently. Whatever memory this animal held, it wasn't going to be easy to dissemble it.

But Harry found that as time went on, it began to trust him more and more when Harry continued to heal it. Not including the failed attempt at transforming it, it started to become friendly, greeting Harry when he entered, rather than hiding or lashing out. Harry began to feel the same fondness in return as he would for a pet. Or maybe a guardian?

This night, Harry felt to exhausted to try and fix anymore of the space. As the days wore on, Harry felt less and less inclined or able to fix things. The weak and weary stage of hunger had firmly settled upon him. All he could do now was lie on the ground of the space and stare up at the emptiness above.

Harry had found that if he spent time inside of his mind before bed and drifted off from there, no memories of Voldemort and his terrible acts assaulted him. Within a few minutes, his self-appointed guardian crept out from behind a washer and dryer set Harry hadn't yet found the energy to change. The beast bared its fangs at him, but Harry didn't bat an eyelash and waited for it to come to him.

His lack of reaction seemed to reassure it, and it slowly approached him. The cat settled next to him with a muffled thump. It curled its body around him protectively, as if sensing his weakened state, soft tan fur smelling of dirt and pine.

It was all Harry could do to rest his head weakly on its belly and drift off without another thought.

- BBWO -

The morning of the Hogwarts Express was a stressful one. Hermione had packed his trunk the previous day in hopes that she and Harry could have a peaceful morning. It was a good thing too, because while Ron ran around his room like a madman looking for missing socks and unbroken quills, Hermione and Harry were able to lie low and spend some time out in the fresh air.

The wind whipped through the knee-high grass, making it dance just off in the distance.

In the last few weeks, Harry and Hermione had reached a comfortable stage of their friendship that they spent doing homework and reading, allowing the quiet companionship that Harry needed; the less Harry ate, the quieter he became, and now he was as pale a ghost and thin as a whip, with limbs thin and crooked like willow branches. Hermione tried her best to help him, but there was little, if anything, she could do, especially when experts from Saint Mungo's and the like could not diagnose him.

A strange calm settled over the house and the subject was not broached. Everyone was silently holding out hope that whatever was wrong would be solved at Hogwarts. Hermione stayed with him, silent but comforting, and Ron stayed away as the twins tried to stay positive.

Of all the members of the house, Mrs. Weasley's reaction was the worst.

Mrs. Weasley, who drugged him and effectively forced his starvation, wept tears that stayed silent, and without rest.

Some days, Harry wondered whether she cried for him or herself. Either way, she was the one who was taking his weakened state the worst. Her eyes were bloodshot morning, noon, and night. Sleep evaded her - or so Harry had overheard the twins whispering. Her skin became pale and translucent, as if all the glow of health and motherhood was sucked from her skin.

Most of the days she spent silently, watching him with a hawk's gaze. Unlike Hermione, who waited softly at his side, reading or doing homework, Mrs. Weasley did nothing, preferring to focus all her attention on his waning form. It was unnerving and frightening.

All the Weasleys, plus Harry and Hermione, gathered at the Floo. Normally, they would all take a car to King's Cross, but with Harry's sickness, it was determined that the quickest mode would be ideal.

Ron went first and Ginny followed. When it got to be Harry's turn, Mrs. Weasley held out the small pot of sparkling green powder almost reluctantly. Her hands tightened convulsively around the black iron jar as Harry reached over to it. Grasping the fine dust tightly in his fist, Harry stepped into the fireplace. He didn't look back, unsure if he would be able to deal with what he saw there.

"Platform 9 ¾!" Harry shouted weakly.

A blaze of green exploded in front of his eyes, like a brilliant burning forest where the colors of the leaves and the flames mingled. The off kilter feeling of flooing had not decreased from Harry's last trip; if anything it had become worse. The sensation of being shot out of a cannon from one place to another was not Harry's favorite, but he did arrive at King's Cross in one piece, which was as much as he could hope for.

The Hogwarts Express was just as big and grand as it was in Harry's memories. Harry was at the stage of his hunger that allowed slight confusion and hallucination. Every confirmation was a gift. The saving graces of Harry's life were Hermione and Slughorn.

Upon reading and understanding Harry's cryptic letter, the old professor had promptly sent small rations of food, as well as the photo of his mother along with another to prove his identity. This one was on thick creamy parchment that showed, in high gloss, his mother and father together at their wedding. It was similar to one of the pictures Harry had in his old album. While that picture had been of his mother and father at the altar surrounded by the wedding party, this one was solely on Lily and James, eating cake and laughing with white frosted mouths. That photo, along with the first, had been stashed inside Harry's pillow case since that night.

Slughorn's small contributions had helped him immensely, but it was Hermione that kept him going. She always had him nibbling off her plate. She was willing to let him eat all he wanted, and never questioned why her food was suitable and his own plate repulsive. By the time Hermione had begun habitually sharing her food, he was far enough gone that he could only ingest small amounts of food at a time.

While Harry was entranced, staring at the train lost in his memories, Hermione was upon him. The gentle weight upon his shoulder alerted him to her presence. Instead of being suddenly ripped from his thoughts by the touch, Harry simply floated out of them. So when he finally focused on her a minute or two later, the look she gave him was one of both exasperation and compassion.

"I have to go to the Prefects' car, Harry, so let me help you get settled first, alright?" Hermione spoke to him in dulcet tones that made him feel like a child, but he just couldn't find it in himself to be angry with her.

"Sure," was his only reply. Harry struggled just at first, but after a few moments, was able to hoist his trunk up from the ground. It seemed that Ron had forgotten it there on the platform after his mother insisted he carry it.

Hermione looked as if she wanted to object, but then thought better of it. Even she seemed to realize that a girl lunging his trunk for him was the last thing his self esteem needed.

So she followed him, making idle conversation about this and that. Blaise Zabini's mother, the famed black widow, had remarried once again. Dean Thomas and Ginny were dating, much to Ron's apparent horror. Pansy Parkinson was rumored to have gotten her nose magically straightened and reduced. Where she came by all this gossip, Harry was unsure; she had practically spent the summer glued by his side.

Whatever the truth, Harry knew that she only spoke of it for his benefit.

Finding a compartment was harder than Harry or Hermione had expected. Each one they passed was filled with three or more students, and the longer they walked, the more Hermione seemed to despair. Harry knew that she refused to leave without first seeing him settled, but she also dreaded being late to the Prefect meeting.

Just as Harry was about to give up hope and resign himself to sitting with a couple of giggling third year girls in a compartment that was blessedly near, Slughorn appeared. His jolly expression of good humor had not diminished from the last time Harry met him. And although he seemed better dressed, the keen, knowing glint that had been present in their private discussion was suspiciously absent.

For a moment, Harry wondered if any of it was true; but within seconds, he chastised himself for such thoughts. The pictures were enough proof and that wasn't even including the book Slughorn had given him.

"Hello, Harry. How are you this fine day?" Slughorn asked in the same jovial tone that his expression reflected. "Although, if you don't mind my saying so, you do look a little worse for wear."

Harry tried his best to ignore Hermione's questioning glances in his direction. Harry had briefly skimmed his trip with Dumbledore, but downplayed most of it for obvious reasons.

"I have been feeling a little bit under the weather, sir, but I have a feeling that the change of scenery is just what I need to kick this bug." Harry tried not to be too obvious in his looks to the Professor, lest Hermione see.

"That is indeed most excellent news to hear!" Slughorn replied in such a pleased tone that Harry would not have been surprised to see him clap his hands a bit in excitement. Harry had to wonder if this was the way he normally interacted with people. He sure hoped so, or questions Harry would rather be left unasked would begin to form.

"And I see that you have your luggage with you. Well, you must join me in my private compartment. I'm having a little lunch in with a few of your more advanced class mates and I would be honored if you would join us." Slughorn didn't even wait for a response, merely scooped up Harry's trunk and trudged off with it to the unknown destination of the lunch in.

Harry shot a semi-helpless look back at Hermione, but did follow the older man obediently. Although the idea of getting to sit and possibly get some straight answers from the Professor was indeed a welcome thought, Harry had to wonder which of his peers Slughorn had deemed "advanced" enough to join them.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything period.**

**Thanks to my beta Loveliness Decays for all her hard work! **

**Please enjoy read and review! 3**

It turned out that Harry really had no idea which of his classmates were advanced after all.

Out of the eight other occupants of the deluxe cabin, Harry vaguely recognized five of them; for the remaining three, he couldn't put names to the faces.

All those that were previously seated were assembled around a large octagonal table cased with hard black leather. On top of the table, all types of delectable dishes were piled high; steaming plates of cooked vegetables piled with butter, thick slices of roasted ham and turkey still juicy and radiating heat, fresh fruits all red, yellow, and green in color covered the table almost to the breaking point.

While Harry stared, mesmerized, at the gluttonous spread, he did not notice the movement happening all around him. Before he knew what was going on, Harry was being pulled into one of the thickly padded leather seats by a cool, pale hand.

Harry looked up just in time to see a quick smile retreating from the boy's pale face. He was a person Harry did not easily recognize. He seemed vaguely familiar, but no name came to mind. He was tall and lean, with skin so pale that it looked as though any sunlight would severely damage it, and messy, cut off dark brown hair; but most strikingly, pale blue eyes that seemed to stare dead out into the cabin, the perfect opposite of the expression Harry had witnessed for a split second.

The hand, once it had his attention, gestured to the open place at the table lazily, as if even that one gesture was too much work.

Once Harry seated himself, Slughorn followed suit and glided to his own spot opposite the door. While Slughorn took the time to introduce him in a long, pretentious speech, Harry's eyes darted around the table, sizing up and cataloguing all of the guests.

Harry easily recognized Hannah Abbott sitting two seats to his left. As a former member of Dumbledore's Army, Harry was comforted greatly by her presence, even though they were not the closest of friends. Her bright blue eyes were sparkling with excitement as she too inspected the room's occupants.

When their eyes met for a fraction of a second, her face flushed and she had to look away quickly. Harry couldn't help but think that was the trouble with girls. They were all so skittish.

Past Hannah was Michael Corner, whom he had once heard Ginny describe as 'cute.' Shaking his head disgustedly, Harry moved on to the next seat.

The girl who sat there was one who Harry had seen before. He could not say what her name was, but he knew she was a Gryffindor not only because she wore a set of deep fitted burgundy robes, but because Harry had seen her hanging out in the common room a few times.

She was a tough looking girl without the slender neck or dainty hands that most girls her age possessed. Her thick hair was pulled back in a tightly woven braid that hung down her back. She wasn't the most attractive of girls, but the designer robes and her keen eyes softened her harsh look.

He vaguely recognized the next two: Padma Patil, Ron's date to the failed Yule Ball, and Marietta Edgecombe.

Marietta Edgecombe _was_ the DA member who tattled to Umbridge, and far from being one his favourite people, but Harry had come to accept that the events of the previous year were in the past. With Harry's change over the summer, he had learned to get over the little things. Marietta's past squealing was unimportant in the long run.

" - sure you all know." Slughorn chuckled at the joke Harry had apparently missed. It didn't matter too much, because before long, Slughorn was off again. "I started this little club all the way back when my teaching career first commenced. At that time, Hogwarts was a very different type of school, so my hosting of what some may criticize as an elitist club was not all that unusual."

At that point, he paused for a slight second, and a crumpled grimace took over his face. Slughorn's gooseberry eyes bored into the carriage door, but his gaze was far off, as if even then he was recalling the complaints.

"At that time, Hogwarts often played host to foreign witches and wizards as exchange students. There were also numerous diverse sports which the school endorsed, as well as many clubs, study groups, and organizations to take part in. It was at that time I first began my venture." Slughorn seemed to chew and digest each word before uttering it.

Harry found it didn't aggravate him as much as it did when Ron would slowly stumble over words. The sedate pace allowed Harry's mind to run free as he imagined what the school might have been like decades ago. It bothered Harry for a moment, that he had never felt restricted or discontent with the selection Hogwarts provided.

After all, there were only five electives to choose from and none of them were spoken languages. There wasn't even a bloody French class, even though France was just across the channel. There was also only one sport at Hogwarts, which only held seven positions per House. So that meant only twenty-eight students were allowed to participate.

If you wanted to talk about elitist, that seemed like a sure fit.

Harry's mind reeled with all that he had been unwittingly denied. For a moment, something Malfoy had said years ago came to mind; the juvenile, whiney tone of the younger Malfoy perfectly exemplified Harry's own feelings when he had said, "Gods, this place is going to the dogs!"

"During those years, I created this club to help prepare those students whom, by parentage, chance, or talent, would find themselves in the cruel world of social niceties after the left the hallowed halls of Hogwarts behind them. It was with that intention I fashioned this club for that which I called _Udhëheqja e studentëve dhe grupi uniteit_." The calm and persuasive way Slughorn spoke left Harry and all the others around speechless at the smooth line of gibberish he had produced.

Slughorn chuckled when he saw the expressions that ranged from bewildered and intrigued to… smug.

The one smug expression gave the older man pause as he turned fully to his right to examine the grinning Blaise Zabini.

"Do you understand many Indo-European languages, Mr. Zabini?" Slughorn questioned with true curiosity. It was obvious the older man had not expected anyone to have remotely understood the strange language.

Zabini, for his part, did not even react to his newfound attention. Harry had to wonder if he was really friends with Malfoy, who preened for attention, or if he was rather his own man.

Zabini responded in a dull and listless tone, "Not so many. But when I was younger, my mother and I would spend summers with my…" The other boy seemed to trail off, a slight blush appearing on his tanned checks, and he cleared his throat before beginning again, quickly going back to being bored. "We would spend summers in Southern Italy with my nonna after one of my mother's husbands passed away. She's spoken Albanian since she was a little girl."

Although Harry wanted to chuckle at the other boy when he almost tenderly referred to his grandmother, Harry did not at all miss the blatant reference to his mother, the Black Widow. The casual and cold way he spoke of his 'mother's husbands' was a bit disturbing, to say the least.

Slughorn, for his part, was over the moon at this news. Either he didn't catch the casual mention of Mrs. Zabini's murderous ways or he simple did not care. "Really? I had not thought that there were any pureblood families still living in the traditional indo-Italian villages anymore. Where does your grandmother live?" The man was acting like a child, only he seemed to be enthralled by pure knowledge, as if that were the only sustenance worth consuming.

Harry himself had lately found his own mind seemed to crave knowledge also, and had thought it was only the byproduct of some sort of brain malnutrition or something strange like that. But glancing around the room at all the wide eyes and expectant faces, Harry realized that Hermione was not the only one who craved knowledge. Even Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff - he meant no offense to the House of badgers - seemed completely taken in.

"My nonna, Marcella Zabini, is from Luciana," the Slytherin replied confidently. This time, he seemed unbothered by the affectionate name, and instead rather proud, as if it set him apart to have such a culturally diverse background. For that, Harry could not fault him, especially as he remembered on the Black Tapestry it showed that Sirius' mother and his father were cousins.

Slughorn beamed, and seemed as if he wished to ask more questions, but resigned himself to waiting and completing his story. "What Mr. Zabini understood was Albanian. When I was a young man, I brewed myself a bottle of Felix Felicis and took it. While I won't go into what happened to me that day, what I will tell you is that it led me to Albania. I, of course, learned the language and fell in love with it for its harsh exterior and underlying soothing sounds. The name of the club translated means Student Leadership and Unity Group." There he paused, before adding with a wry smile and a twinkling eye, that it was for that name that the moniker The Slug Club had been born.

After that, the rest of the meeting was rather unremarkable. All the students and the professor indulged in the feast set out before them and idle chatter commenced. A few brave students, including Anthony Goldstein, tried to drag out the tale of Slughorn's perfect day, but the older man was resilient. Harry was impressed, because he did not even succumb to the obvious flattery of the strange boy sitting to Harry's left. Flattery was the downfall of many.

From the conversation between the two, Harry gleaned that the boy's name was Adrian, but he did not catch a last name. It was obvious that the two were previously acquainted, as Slughorn did not even have to be told he had the privileged of using the boy's given name.

Harry was mostly left alone for the duration of the train ride, although he did at one point find himself being drawn into a discussion with Hannah over the importance of the movement when performing defensive spells. She argued that the class placed the most emphasis on quickly and accurately executing the correct wand movements.

"It's not so much the pattern that matters rather the intent that is behind the spell that is most important. You need to feel and know the spell more than just adhering to standard movements." Harry's voice was rising, as Hannah's had been, ever so slightly, as it had continued to do as their disagreement continued.

Harry was getting annoyed. He didn't know how to express his thoughts to her, how to explain the incredible feelings and things that took place when he performed magic. There were no words to describe it, and Harry feared no one else felt magic in the same way that he did. Just the thought that no one might understand magic as he did didn't make him happy or triumphant. It made him feel lonely.

Just as Hannah was about to retort, a new voice joined them: "Wand movements and special Latinized words are just a crutch to a powerful witch or wizard," the older boy, Adrian, explained simply.

Hannah looked like she might want to protest, but a pale hand shot between them, effectively silencing her. Just like the first time, the air was as quick and pale as a snake. "There is more than one way to dance," Adrian continued, glancing at her dazed face and flushed neck. It probably didn't help that his over simplifications were treating her like a child. Her low, curly blonde pigtails clashed horribly with her newly reddened face.

Although she was clearly embarrassed and confused, she did not try and interrupt as Adrian repeated, "There is more than one way to dance. Some learn painstakingly, step by step, learning the names of each move as they progress, so that if called upon, they can perform it with some stability. Others are naturals. They learn by practice and determination, going through life without knowing the names of the steps they take to complete the dance." The older boy paused and blew out a long sigh in an attempt to magically get the one straggling strand of his bangs out of his eyes. "People like Potter have the power and the talent that makes focusing on the words or movements inefficient and wasteful when it is easier to focus on what he wants done and flick his wand."

Hannah was completely shocked and stared at Harry with an open mouth. Her eyes trailed his form almost obsessively, looking for some visual representation of his alleged power.

Harry, for his part, was just as shocked. How could this boy know so much about him? Harry could have sworn that he had never met the other boy before. He had to wonder how this Adrian gained so much insight into his character. There were precious few times Harry performed the purest form of magic without wand movements or words, and never did he show it off in public. Where was this knowledge coming from?

Harry couldn't help but throw several suspicious glances at Adrian the rest of the train ride home.

- BBWO -

Returning to Hogwarts was a blessing to Harry. The carriage ride, with Hermione resolutely at his side, was quick, as they both admired coming home. The castle was just as beautiful as it ever had been, with windows illuminated with candle light greeting all the students as they all filed in before the arrival of the new students.

The feast and Sorting ceremony flashed by. The only memorable parts were that eleven new students were inducted into Gryffindor, much more than previous years - although in general, there seemed to be more students lined up to put on the Sorting hat this year - and Slughorn's lack of opening speech, which was a major improvement, Umbridge considered.

Before Harry knew it, he was heading up to bed. Although it was still rather early, Hermione was off on prefect rounds, and he was still in the middle of a row with Ron, so the sane option in Harry's mind was to head off to bed. There was no way he wanted to stay up until some of the crying first years woke up missing their parents. It wasn't that he didn't feel bad for them, but he wasn't the best person to handle it. Let one of the girls deal with it. Right after thinking it, Harry cringed at such a sexist thought and could already hear Hermione scolding him.

Closing his eyes, Harry blocked out the bright crimson curtains of his bed and focused on the feeling of floating of weightlessness. Harry found out, through trial and error, that this was the quickest and easiest way to enter his mindscape. It seemed to Harry that because he associated the feeling of weight being lifted off his shoulders in his mindspace, it was best to make himself feel as light as possible.

Since the beginning of the summer, many changes had taken place in Harry's mindspace. Over half the clutter and miscellaneous junk was sorted and filed under its unique word. The biggest items left to transfigure were a washer and dryer… and a giant cauldron. While Harry was pretty certain he knew the exact meaning of the cauldron, hence his avid avoidance, he was uncertain what the washer and dryer set meant. All he knew was that he did not want to get near it, let alone touch it.

The new, open space, empty of all Harry's junky memories, made him feel free and cleansed, and relaxed him greatly, even though it was almost pitch black and the walls were stone.

Harry had to wonder if he had claustrophobia. It wouldn't surprise him in the least; after all, he did spend the first eleven years of his life in a cupboard.

As Harry laid down, still too exhausted to clean anymore space, his friend appeared from the darkness. When the cougar growled slightly at Harry's uplifted head and bared its fangs, Harry merely gave it a toothy grin before he settled back down to wait for the beast to approach him.

As always, the cat reluctantly did. Harry found he wasn't too bothered by the animal's apparent attitude problem. His mind was already too lost contemplating the day's previous events, and more specifically, Adrian.

He didn't notice when his guardian relinquished its pride and curled up next to him. Harry craned his neck and settled his head at an awkward angle in order to rest his head upon the beast's massive tan body. Today, its fur smelled like snow: fresh, clean, and a bit like rain.

Without thinking, Harry vocalized to his cougar the one thought that had been plaguing him throughout the day: "Do you think this Adrian understands me because his magic works in the same way as mine does?"

A loud, rumbling growl sounded out from the silky chest below his ear; and then the cougar stopped and snorted, as if such questions weren't worthy of his time.

Harry only chuckled at the strange cat's antics before completely relaxing his head onto the furred torso and drifting on to sleep.

- BBWO -

For some reason, even as he drifted through sleep, he could not help but feel restless. His mind refused to completely shut down.

As a result, Harry awoke tired and incoherent, greeted by a rustling noise from outside of his curtains for Harry's alert ears. No light peeped through the small gaps of his bed hangings.

For a moment, Harry contemplated returning to sleep and ignoring the noise and the day altogether. He burrowed his face deeper into his golden pillows and did so.

But the once quiet noise of rustling paper exploded into the sounds of sheet after sheet of paper being violently ripped apart right next to his head.

Growling under his breath, Harry fumbled around his bed for the openings. With all the strength left in his sleep-ridden body, he opened the shades.

Dancing oddly in the dim light of a lamp he must have forgotten to put out was a strange origami creature.

At first, Harry was unsure of what it could be, with all its tiny, intricate folds and flaps. Somehow, the designer had managed to create an almost three dimensional round puff that, instead of looking like a crumpled up piece of trash, actually looked like a layered and folded up ball with functional wings.

After Harry's sleepy brain caught up, he realized that this was an origami representation of a Golden Snidget, complete with functional wings and a tiny beak that seemed to be making the horrid tearing noises.

Harry distantly remembered it from a book Hermione had given to him back when he was trying to pass the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. It was called something like 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.' In the end, it had not been very helpful, but it was one of the few books they had found that Harry found he enjoyed enough to glance through more than once. The Golden Snidget had especially interested him because the little golden birds were the original inspiration for the Golden Snitch.

When the little paper bird recognized Harry, it stopped all its noisemaking and perched itself upon Harry's cool palm. His fingers itched to touch the little bird and find out exactly who and what had created this little creature.

But before Harry could take any action other than to stare stupidly downward, the bird shuddered, and each one of the thousands of folds made to resemble feathers ruffled slightly before it all came undone. Unfolding like a bow, each crease seemed to reach outward, straightening, before a new complete piece of parchment sat in his palm instead of a bird. Harry could imagine anyone trying to manually unfold each elaborate design would only tear the note to shreds.

Harry read the note quickly, and after finishing it, he burned it without pause in the small ongoing flame on his bed side table. He sat up out of the bed, and in his haste to get out, the golden and red embroidered coverlet spilled off his mattress and onto the floor. Snatching the blankets from the ground, he threw them back onto his cot.

Harry, taking in his surroundings, realized that it was still, in fact, the hours before dawn.

Harry sealed his bed hangings shut with two quick efficient flicks of his wand. Pulling on his dressing gown, Harry tiptoed by the noisily sleeping Ron and the quieter Neville. Both seemed to have forgotten to shut their curtains before sleep overtook them. Harry could only hope that the flickering shadows his movements produced would not be enough to wake either of them.

By the time Harry reached the bottom of the boys' dormitory stairs, adrenaline was pumping through his veins. Here he was, on the first night of school, sneaking out without the Marauder's Map or the Invisibility Cloak. Too bad Ron's curtains had been left open; he might have attempted it otherwise.

Luckily for Harry, the place he was hoping to reach was only down the hall from the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

The message had instructed him to go to the office just across the rusted suit of armor holding a wilted tulip. Every day, all the Gryffindors walked past that same statue on their way to breakfast in the Great Hall. Although Harry had never really noticed an office near there, Harry was nearly positive if he consulted Hermione she would know that there was one there. She could also probably quote from Hogwarts a History the last teacher to inhabit it also.

It was easier than Harry expected to sneak out of the tower. All the students, younger and older years, had all gone to bed some hours ago. There was a dim blaze in the grate, generating just enough light to illuminate a path to the portrait. In the orange light of the fire, all the portrait frames gleamed gold, and the deep red of the couches shifted to burgundy.

It was a strange sight to see such a muted version of the normally loud and bright room full of noisy, rambunctious people. In the dark, it looked much more subdued and restrained.

Harry exited the portrait of the Fat Lady, even as she continued to snore away, locked in sleep. Harry smiled, flashing his teeth to the darkness when he thought about his luck. If nothing else, his luck sure made it easy to get into trouble.

How Harry expected to get back into the tower, he was unsure, but he was certain that if Slughorn called him out, the older man had a plan to get him back in.

As Harry continued down the hall, the cold stone under his feet made it apparent that he had forgotten shoes. When he really thought about his attire, Harry was slightly embarrassed, because he was only wearing sleeping pants and a robe. In his haste to obtain new and important information, he had disregarded the need for a shirt.

Blushing, he could only pull his robe tighter. Harry felt more self conscious about the whole affair just because it truly put into perspective how eager and childish he was being. So wrapped up in the very thought of finding the truth, he forgot a shirt and shoes. Harry knew there was a joke in there somewhere; he just refrained from looking for it.

All he could do was hope that Slughorn wouldn't bring it up.

The suit of armor was exactly as Slughorn had written and Harry had remembered. Staring at it, Harry could only feel a little pity for the picture of rejected love. Although Harry couldn't remember exactly, he was sure that there was a true story to go along with the view.

Hermione would have remembered, though, because Hermione remembered everything.

Harry was sure that if he looked in his mind for a few minutes he could bring the memory forward, but all he could remember now was that it had something to do with opposing sides of war.

Then again, most love stories were about that kind of thing anyway.

Brushing his fingertips against the rusted metal once again, Harry could not help but feel nostalgic for all fairytales he missed reading as a child. He had an insane urge to go find some Wizarding tales that his mother or father might have read to him, but he brushed the thought away. By now, he was too old for fairytales.

"Harry!" A hand reached at his shoulder, and Harry spun around automatically, on the defensive, ready to pull his wand out for battle or come up with the best lie he could think of for being out so late.

As it turned out, neither were necessary. It was Slughorn.

Harry suddenly felt very silly for lagging around in the hallway, daydreaming.

Slughorn did not say another word, merely dragged Harry by his robed sleeve until they were safely behind a solid oak door. Even then, he waited until after he performed various charms that Harry was sure included a silencing and privacy ward as well as a proximity charm to alert them if anyone drew near.

"What in the seven hells were you doing just standing out there, Mr. Potter?" Slughorn exclaimed, arms flailing about rapidly, gesturing this way and that. His lips were thin and tight. "Anyone, and I mean anyone, could have seen you! My former pupil, Severus, who I'm sure you know dislikes you a great deal, could have happened upon you. The old, ratty caretaker, or his equally flea bitten cat, might have found you. Worst of all, even Dumbledore might have come across you. God knows the dodgy old codger never sleeps!"

Harry felt bad, but he couldn't help but snigger at some of the descriptions the professor had given to some of his least favorite characters. "I understand," Harry replied solemnly. "It was a stupid mistake, and I am sorry for getting so distracted, sir."

The apology seemed to have worked wonders, because within moments Slughorn was back to his jovial mood - or perhaps the man had not really been all that upset, which was a distinct possibility.

"Take a seat," Slughorn instructed, pointing out a blue couch of crushed velvet. Harry lowered himself to his spot on the couch and Slughorn took his seat on a matching high backed armchair. "Spot of tea, Harry?" Harry nodded and Slughorn began pouring out the tea.

Once they were both settled with steaming cups of tea, fitted with appropriate amounts of sugar and milk, Slughorn took some extra deep breaths which told Harry that the difficult part of their discussion was now upon them.

"If you remember correctly," Slughorn began in his most charming conversational tone, "when you and I spoke last, you had some doubts about the information I gave to you."

Harry once again nodded and tried to swallow, but his throat was dry in anticipation. Slughorn seemed to understand this perfectly, for he smiled. "Since then, I know that you have had a change of heart, and, in fact, used both of the gifts I sent along with you. But judging from your obvious…" Here he paused and gestured to the slight opening in Harry's dressing gown that revealed his extremely malnourished body.

Harry blushed and quickly snatched at the fabric. "Yes, well… I had to use interesting means to ensure I was not contaminated once again."

Slughorn nodded thoughtfully, responding quietly that it was just as he thought, and then rose from his seat.

For a moment, Harry wondered if he too should stand, but after a moment of indecision, he remained in his seat.

Harry peeked his head around, following Slughorn's movements as he went over to a large cabinet full of drawers and cupboards. Reaching into one of the upper most drawers, the older man retrieved a light blue potion, and as he passed Harry, handed the bottle over.

Without much thought, Harry downed the whole container in one gulp. Harry had known even from across the room that it was another nutrition potion.

"I take it you found out who was dosing you."

"I found out, but I highly doubt that was the only place where I was being given that poison." Harry didn't even have the venom to act angry at the Weasleys. He was. He hated them for making him falsely believe they cared for him, but after a whole month of the knowing and suppressing his reactions, Harry found that when it came down to it, he could no longer react. He felt the hate, but he could not even express it. "My food here at the school is probably contaminated also. I don't know how I'll be able to last the school year if it is. There is no way I can continue to live by mooching off of scraps from Hermione's plate."

"I believe, as you do, that is probably the case. To protect yourself, you can find a trusted house elf to be your personal server, one that you can trust to provide you with only the best food and none that will be poisoned. Even if someone tried to slip it in, house elves are notoriously good at sensing magic, so you would be protected that way." It was interesting to listen to Slughorn; it seemed that he was like Harry in that his plans always seemed to unfold best when he spoke them out loud.

Harry found himself agreeing quickly and explaining that he knew a house elf perfect for the job. That led Harry to telling the tale of how he'd stolen a house elf from Lucius Malfoy.

Slughorn was letting out full bellied laughs that filled the room by the time Harry finished, and Harry himself couldn't restrain his own chuckles of remembrance.

"There was a reason I did not invite the young Malfoy to my luncheon, and it has nothing to do with his incarcerated father, as so many would believe. The truth is that old Abraxas Malfoy, young Draco Malfoy's paternal grandfather, was a very protective man. I believe he thought that I was a threat to his young heir, so he banned his son, Lucius, from attending any of my meetings. Until otherwise informed, I can only assume that is what Lucius would have for his son."

The explanation sounded strange to Harry's ears and didn't fit in with what he imagined for the snobby family's home life. He would have more easily believed that the family simply refused to attend because it was plebian.

"What happened to make Malfoy's grandfather so overprotective?" Harry asked. There seemed no reasonable explanation as to why the man would believe something like a club at Hogwarts was dangerous. Then again, if Harry examined his own life, he could see where that statement could be easily proven false.

"All I can say is the little bit I have heard over the years. Apparently, when Lucius was very young, he was attacked and kidnapped by a group of Muggleborns unhappy with some piece of legislation or other that his father was pressing through the Wizenganot. No one knows what happened, only that the younger Malfoy was returned and when he was again spotted, the boy seemed to be fine."

Slughorn's story was a strange one, and there were next to no descriptive details, only hearsay, but in a strange way it made sense to Harry. What else, other than blind hatred or psychopathic tendencies, could to cause a family to irrevocably hate a group of people?

By that time, it was getting late, and Harry could see Slughorn getting ready to throw him out for the night. The tea was cold, and the sun would probably be up in an hour or two, so Harry decided it was now or never.

As Slughorn began to rise, probably to usher him out, Harry blurted out the question that had been on his mind all night: "Who was the source? Who told you about my being drugged?"

The man froze, halfway up from his seat, and stared into Harry's eyes intently, trying to gauge how important this was to him. After a few moments of silence, he seemed to realize Harry would not be relenting anytime soon. "All I can tell you is this they work with Unspeakables."

Harry tried to open his mouth, which was hanging open woodenly, to ask more questions, but before his mind could sort through the multitudes of questions to pick one to speak, he was being shoved out the door. Only the advice of tugging the Fat Lady's left earring was given to him, so Harry was left to make the trek back to Gryffindor Tower with more questions than he'd arrived with.

Something told him this might become a common occurrence.


	6. Chapter 6

**So sorry for the long wait! I have been having a really busy summer between vacation and a new job writing slipped through the cracks. I think I am settling in now so hopefully quicker updates in the future.**

**Warning this chapter is unedited so far. As soon as my beta Loveliness Decays finishes up with it I will replace this chapter. So for those of you who don't mind reading my mistakes enjoy, if not the edited version will be here soon. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from Harry Potter and I am not making any money. Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling.**

Bad Blood Will Out

Chapter Six

Despite some early frustration Harry's morning classes sped by with the usual opening syllabus' handed out and a fresh new wave of assignments. The only significant change, for Harry at least, was his own new drive to complete his classwork to the best of his abilities. The days of hastily completed essays scribbled on the backs of partially used parchment were over.

History of Magic had been the usual snore with Binn's blathering on for the second year in a row about Snotwrath the Conqueror and many other key warriors of the Goblin Wars. Harry had to wonder if the absentminded ghost even knew which year he was teaching.

The only class of the day that held any slight intrigue for Harry was his sixth year transfiguration. Professor Mcgonagall explained in her usual clipped Scottish speech that this year the NEWT level class would be focusing on human to animal transfiguration as well as semi-permanent transfiguration and physical alteration. A glance around the room revealed to Harry that while most faces brightened in elation there was one particular person in the room who paled at the thought to human to animal transmutation.

When Harry really thought about it, mentally replaying the memory of Malfoy's brief stint as a rodent, the actions taken by Barty Crouch Jr. impersonating Moody were a bit harsh. Judging by the sickly gray pallor rapidly skating over Malfoy's face the prank must have had some long lasting effects. Harry tried to imagine what it might have been like to be trapped not only in the body of an animal, but also the mind. Harry tried to understand the terror of his human mind warring with animal instincts in a cacophony of muddled up mayhem. The idea of being trapped in a body of small and fragile seemed like a true torture.

Malfoy had caught him staring with blatant pity then and sneered at him with a mouth full of teeth and spit. Harry's momentary flash of insanity passed. The prat was obviously fine even if the thought of it gave him a fleeting case of the willies.

Lunch at Hogwarts was always spectacular. It was like a buffet at a hotel cooked by chefs every meal. The only school meals Harry had for comparison made each bite of rich cheese and savory cold cuts with freshly made bread that much more indulgent. From what Harry could remember of his primary school lunches there was no resemblance. Frozen and steamed to heat were the ordinary methods of cooking, although if Harry remembered correctly Dudley didn't seem to mind all that much.

As Harry savored the last bites of his food he was disturbed by a soft tapping repetitive tapping on his left shoulder. Turning Harry could see Hermione was impatiently waiting and looking at him with mild irritation. Harry quickly swallowed his food choking a little as it went down. "Is something the matter?" Harry asked his voice still breathy as his coughing spell passed by.

"I wanted to ask you how you liked classes so far. I know that you aren't really into studying for the sake of scholarly pursuits, but I thought that maybe this year since NEWTs are so close you may be a bit more interested, if only for the fact that you need quite a few NEWTs to be accepted into the auror program." Hermione rambled like this for a few minutes blushing as if she was embarrassed for being a bit presumptuous.

Finally Harry cut her off and surprising her with only seven words. "I don't want to be an auror."

Hermione's jaw dropped. Harry was uncertain whether it was from his statement or his matter of fact tone, but in the end it didn't really matter.

"But you- you said that-you said that" She spluttered.

Harry only smiled and shrugged before putting her out of her misery. "I can change my mind." He stated staring at her dead in the eyes. "Logically it would be stupid for me to dismiss all other possibilities. I am also only sixteen. Who really grows up and does exactly what they thought they wanted to do as a teenager?" Harry paused assessing. "Hell I don't even know all the much about my options. I never go anywhere in the wizarding world other than Diagon Alley and school. How am I supposed to make one of the biggest decisions of my life without any career exploration?"

"Not to be rude, Harry, but how did you come to this conclusion? What I mean to say is last year you seemed set on going into the aurors and you didn't seem to care about other options. What's changed?" She questioned softly although her face seemed to glow and her smile never faded as she spoke. Harry could only assume she approved of his change of heart.

"I don't want to be what everyone expects me to be." Harry explained. He hesitated a moment pinching his lip in-between his teeth roughly. "I don't want to be my father. I don't want to be a 'hero' or the 'savior'. These last two years have driven me nuts. I can't take all the flip flopping and back stabbing anymore. I want to be Harry. As in Harry the baker or Harry the teacher or Harry the writer. I don't care what it is, but I don't want to be something I'm not. And Hermione…" Harry stopped his breath was short and his throat felt constricted and dry like he was trying to swallow sand.

Glancing around Harry abruptly stood the backs of his calves scrapping as he stepped out for behind the bench. Silently he grabbed Hermione's wrist towing her along with him even as she stumbled her way out from the table. There were a few sniggers from people as they hurriedly passed by obviously assuming that he and Hermione were in such a rush to leave lunch for a more intimate reason. Harry shuddered as a ripple of disgust passed over his spine. The thought of being with Hermione was like incest.

"Harry James Potter what is this about?" She demanded as they ended their journey in a small side hall off of the Great Hall. It was deserted and even vacant of nosey portraits.

"I couldn't explain fully, not in there." Harry panted. His heart was racing at the very thought of sharing one of his darkest secrets. Even though he was nervous Harry was sure Hermione was the only one he could trust with it. She was the one who had always supported him. She was the one who judged on actions alone. She was the one who never gave up on him.

"Harry, please just tell me what all of this is about? So you don't want to be a carbon copy of your parents. So you don't want to spend your whole life fighting evil people. What's the big deal? Why all this secrecy?" Her confusion was genuine and Harry was surprised she hadn't picked up on the truth he had been dancing around. Her brow was puckered and her jaw firmly set which told Harry that there was no turning back now. Hermione was set on understanding his problem and by Merlin she wouldn't end the blaze of questions until she was satisfied.

"That's just it Hermione. It's not that I don't want to spend my whole life fighting evil maniacs. It's that I don't want to do it at all." There was a stony silence after Harry spoke where Hermione stared at him with wide brown eyes in disbelief.

"You what?" Hermione asked in a slightly hysterical tone. Harry cringed and hoped that his assumptions about her had not been wrong. Without even meaning to he stepped back slightly from her. Maybe bringing up such a controversial life changing topic in the Great Hall had been a bad idea, but it had seemed so natural to tell her.

"Harry…" Hermione whispered breathlessly. Her voice so tender and pitying he physically flinched away from it. "I want that too. You must know that I don't ever want you to have to fight for your life, but the prophecy says-"

"The prophecy, it's always about the damn prophecy!" Harry exclaimed in total exasperation. "Who are you?" Hermione shrank back from his fury. "Truly, are you Hermione anymore? The friend I know would never blindly believe such lofty divination crap. I mean seriously it was made by the biggest fraud of them all, Trelawney. How do we even know that it's true? She could have made the whole damn thing up." Harry's fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were turning white and dark veins stood out brightly against pale skin and bone.

"Harry, you know that I think Trelawney is completely incompetent, but the fact of the matter is, as loathed as I am to admit it, she made one true prediction." She spoke in the same soft comforting tone that had plagued the conversation. Rationally he knew that it was ridiculous of him to be so irritated at her for simply trying to placate him, but he didn't want to be placated damn it! He wanted to get angry. He wanted to feel all the rage and injustice that swam maliciously underneath the surface of his skin.

"Says who? Who says it has to come true?" Hermione looked at him slightly slacked jawed. Harry supposed she had never quite this way. Normally he was full of self-righteous indignation but in that moment he was a maelstrom of loathing for Trelawney, for Dumbledore, and for every other idiot that believed the damned prophecy. "How do we really know it is true? Aren't most prophecies self-filling? They come true because someone like Dumbledore or Voldemort believes them either out of fear or hope. Aren't they the ones who made it true and not some greater design of fate? Isn't that a more logical explanation?"

Harry's breath was uneven and Hermione looked stunned. Before either of them could make a sound a commotion snapped them out of their intense staring contest. Students of all ages filed out of the Great Hall. Each house seemed to exit in mass before the next would follow Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and then Ravenclaw, finally Gryffindor rounding out the back as loud and boisterous as ever. They charged out the doors talking, laughing, pushing and shoving with the greatest of merriment.

Glancing around skittishly Harry decided there was only one place for them to finish there conversation in relative privacy. Hermione let out a muted squeak as Harry latched onto her slim wrist dragging her bodily behind him. Without pausing to give reply Harry towed Hermione up the two flights of stairs and down the hall to the library. There was a wonky piece of carpet that snagged Harry's trainer and almost sent the both of them sprawling. Luckily Harry caught himself in time, although his momentum vaulted them through the wide double doors of the library.

They entered breathless under the stern tight lipped gaze of Madam Pince. Her nose scrunched in disgust as she saw him enter obviously afraid that her precious books would be soiled by his mere presence. The appearance Hermione behind him was probably the only reason she didn't toss him out on his arse as soon as he entered.

Although Hermione originally seemed apprehensive as soon as she entered her sanctuary and the smell of old ink and musky paper filled her noise she relaxed.

They stopped somewhere in the middle of the library between the magical fiction section that contained the collected works of Gilderoy Lockhart and a section devoted to magical empires of the past.

"I love you, Harry" Hermione confided softly. Her face was flushed and a slight sheen of sweat covered her brow.

Harry's stomach dropped and wriggling eels of nervousness and disgust crawled into the empty carven making it impossible for him to breathe let alone think. How the hell had this happened? What was he supposed to say? I love you too, but the thought of relationship that's more than platonic between us makes me physically ill?

"I… uh" Harry stumbled over his words. His tongue felt think and dry as it languished uselessly in his mouth.

Something in his expression must have given him away because Hermione started laughing hysterically. "Not like that, you prat!" She exclaimed through gasps of air. "That's gross! I love you as a friend, maybe as a brother even, but never like that." Any doubt about her intent quickly vanished in consideration of her laughter. "What I meant is that I love you, as a friend," She added sternly with a quick roll of her eyes. "And that whatever you want to do I'm with you. I will support whatever decision you want to make and help you see it through. So if you believe this prophecy could be fraudulent then I say we prove it."

It wasn't long after that Hermione reluctantly retreated from the library as she headed towards her last class of the day. Harry was already finished with classes and since he had nothing better to do he decided to simply roam the castle in a shallow attempt at ending his boredom, To say he was sulking a bit at not being able to join the NEWT level potions class was not far off. It just seemed unfair that when finally Hogwarts's had hired a competent potion's master who didn't hate Harry's guts he was unable to take advantage of it.

"Mr. Potter!" The sound of his name being called out by his head of house made Harry cringe and wonder what he could have possibly done in less than two days to warrant that kind of attention. Although when Harry thought about it, getting in trouble that quickly was not out of the realm of possibility. After all when he and Ron had flow the Ford Anglia to school they were on the grounds less than ten minutes before they'd each racked up several detentions.

"Professor" Harry greeted the older women with a slight dip of his head.

She seemed a bit throw off balance by that, but got over any momentary confusion quickly. "Is there a reason you seem to be aimlessly wandering the halls instead of attending class like the other students?"

"It's my free period, Professor. I have completed all my classes for the day." He responded shortly. The quicker he cleared this up the quicker he could go back to wandering.

"I believe that advanced potions began only moments ago, Mr. Potter. So I must ask why you are wandering the halls of the upper corridors instead of in your seat in the dungeon where you belong." The certainty in her tone made him wonder if she had overestimated his abilities.

"But I only received an 'E' on my-" Harry began to explain, but his teacher was quick to interrupt him.

"Which Horace will be more than happy to accept. So I suggest you head down there straight away." Harry was already moving before she finished speaking. "Also if you see Mr. Weasley-"

"I doubt it." Harry scoffed softly. "He and I are no longer on speaking terms at the moments. So it's unlikely he'll want to hear anything I want to say even if it is a message from you. Sorry, Professor. But thanks for the tip on Potions. Swear I'll try my best!" Harry called down the hall already most out of ear shot. He left a stuttering Mcgonagall in his wake.

Harry arrived only a few minutes late for potions, which was a miracle, as he had practically had to sprint down. Luckily it seemed that the afternoon's lecture had not yet begun. There were a few surprised faces, a couple smiling ones, and the disgusted sneer of Malfoy as he entered the room slightly out of breath.

Hermione's eyes twinkled brightly when she noticed his presence. Quietly she beckoned him over to an empty chair on her left, but before Harry could even think of moving a large hand loomed over his shoulder before clamping down. Harry had to fight his instincts and allow the hand to remain in its place.

"Ah, Harry" Slughorn's voice had taken on the strange thick simpering tone that he had only heard the man speak in once before. It took Harry a moment to realize that this was a front formed by Slughorn to make sure people underestimated him completely. He wanted to make sure people only saw a shallow puffed out windbag who tried to ride on the coattails of his former pupils. Harry was mildly impressed by how easily the man was able to slip quietly back into his role, but if he thought about it Harry remembered that the first time they had met Slughorn transformed effortlessly at a moment's notice.

"I am so pleased to see you will be attending my class. I'd started to despair when I didn't see you among those already seated, but no matter you're here now my dear boy." Harry couldn't help, but cringe ever so slightly as he heard his professor use the headmaster's favorite pet name.

No matter how much Harry liked Slughorn it was not physically possible for him to keep the flicker of dismay from his face. Instead of replying Harry merely nodded and turned to head towards the open seat that was calling out to him as an escape to all his classmates' scrutiny.

The strong smells of earthy ingredients for potions filled his nose and soft bubbling hiss drew his attention to the front of the classroom where six cauldrons of varying sizes and material brewed over soft muted burners. Potions had never been Harry's strongest subject or his favorite, but something about the assortment of elixirs boiling just beyond his reach captured his interest.

One in particular caught Harry and held him in a vice. Although to be fair it was the same one that was entrancing everyone in the room with its potent and delectable fragrance. Breathing in the aroma deeply through his nose Harry could almost taste some of the strongest scents in his mouth.

"Can you smell that, Hermione?" Harry whispered softly almost afraid that an exhale too strong would send the heavenly aroma away.

Biting her lip and bobbing her head in assent Hermione tried to gather her thoughts. It took a few seconds before she got it under control even then her voice was rough and her words stuttered. "Yes, although- I'm sure that we don't exactly smell the same thing."

"What do you mean Hermione?" Harry inquired confusion etched over all of his features. As he waited for her textbook reply, Harry casted a cursory glance around the room and found almost all of the students in the same spell struck position as him. This allowed him to feel a bit better especially as he witnessed some of the other boys including Draco Malfoy and Blaize Zabini taking slow hypnotized steps forward. Harry was grateful that he had at least enough strength not to follow the slow moving zombie mass towards whatever magical liquid lay simmering in a nondescript pewter cauldron.

"It is amortentia powerful love potion that created extreme infatuation borderline obsession in whoever drinks from it. The smell is different for everyone. Personal preference I assume. You don't smell freshly polished wood, sage, or um… sweat?" Hermione colored as she admitted the last ingredient that caught her attention.

"No, I- " Before Harry could tell explain to her the scents overloading his brain Slughorn interrupted.

"Ah, Miss Granger I couldn't help but overhear you explain the effect of the potion contained within the first cauldron to Mr. Potter. Would you be ever so kind as to repeat it for the class?" Slughorn pinned her with an expectant gaze.

To her credit Hermione didn't falter and explained with extra detail the name and effects of the potion. Harry did notice that she refrained from adding in her own interpretation of the potion's scent.

To Harry and probably many other students relief after Hermione's explanation Slughorn lifted a heavy metal lid from the bench and laid it over the aforementioned cauldron. As soon as the mother of pearl liquid and its streams of shimmering steam were effectively bottled the whole class took a few collective steps back. Flushed faces and stony gazes revealed many who were less than pleased with their own lack of self-restraint.

The next ten minutes were used to introduce four other intricate potions represented in the front of the room. None of the others caused quite as much as a stir as the love potion though. Only one other could rival amortentia with the intrigue it caused. Saving a small vile of molten gold colored liquid for last Slughorn presented it to a class of incredulous gazes.

"Felix felicis" The older man intoned gravely. "One of the most powerful and most difficult potions a master can brew. If done correctly the drinker will experience the luckiest day of their life. In essence they will achieve the perfect day. Often called 'liquid luck', felix felicis has many components that are either extremely expensive or exceptionally dangerous to collect. Not to mention without the right permits some of the ingredients and illegal to own. Most will never get to partake of its magical properties." Every student's eyes bored into Slughorn as he spoke. Lustful envy in their eyes as they stared fixedly at the tiny vial clasped between Slughorn's thumb and forefinger.

"What I can say, is that one of you will be able to test felix felicis from this very vile. To the best brewed draught of living death goes the prized." As if to emphases his point the potion's master shook the vile shifting the liquid side to side in a sound so soft that it almost reminded Harry of thee tinkling of a quiet bell.

There was a whole moment where the entire was frozen before the flurry of turning pages and pounding footsteps to gather supplies rang out in one loud explosion.

"Page One Hundred and Seventeen." Slughorn called out over the din.

Harry realized that he did not even own a potion's text at the moment, and although Hermione would probably be willing to share with him Harry didn't want to get in her way and ruin her chances at the prize.

Slughorn must have realized this problem as well because he caught Harry's eye and pointed a pudgy finger back towards a blackwood shelving unit at the very back of the room past the table set up with extra supplies and rare ingredients that none of the students would have within their normal store.

There was only one ragged old copy left on the shelf, but Harry seized it without complaint. He didn't believe he was accomplished enough to win, but why give up a shot for the grand prize?

Some of the pages were ripped or missing as Harry soon learned hastily leafing through the book. Page 117 was intact, which was a major blessing although on closer inspection the book seemed to have been vandalized. Certain steps were blotted out in ink and barely legible scrawl was added into the margins.

For a moment Harry was at a loss on how to continue, but he decided some potion was better than no potion. Dutifully Harry grabbed the supplies the book listed and the things the previous owner changed.

Hermione glanced over at one point and questioned the changes he was making. Harry simply replied that this was what the provided him so it was worth a shot. Seeing Hermione's frazzled nerves and barely stable potion Harry believed he made the right choice. Although she shot he an eye roll and a slight envious gaze Hermione still managed to smile at his apparent success. Her comfort was that out of everyone she was doing the best outside of Harry.

Forty minutes later brewing time was over and Slughorn started to make his rounds trying to mask his disgust at certain individual's attempts.

"I think you've won Harry." Hermione whispered in awe. "I guess those directions were superior. If I were you I wouldn't show your book to the others." She nodded her head in the direction of a fuming Padma Patil and Terry Boot who glared jealously across the room.

"I won't." Harry said with a laugh. "But maybe you and I could look into it. You know see if we can see why this recipe and any others may be better."

Hermione smiled gratefully and a bit more confidently. Harry wondered briefly if she believed this book would be an obstacle in their friendship. The only thing Harry could imagine was that she might be afraid of is if he became too smart or whatever and decided he no longer needed her anymore. That was of course a ridiculous notion given all that he had shared with her just this morning in fact. Either way it didn't matter much because his response seemed to have reassured her.

Harry did in fact win and his unofficial second prize of the day was the filthy looks that everyone excluded Hermione shot at him whether his back was turned or not. The news spread throughout the school and that evening in the common room Harry found himself under the red hot rage of Ron once again. Why? Hell if Harry knew. The prat hadn't even been in that class.

"I heard you cheated your way to the top today in potions." Ron sneered spittle flying as he spoke through gnashing teeth.

Hermione had already gone up to bed which Harry believed was the only reason the ginger had been brave enough to confront him. "I don't know what you're talking about Ron." Harry replied in an exasperated tone.

"Oh don't you? Everyone knows you're crap at potions so there's no way you could have won that potion on your own. What'd you do slip the old teach a few signed autographs maybe a pouch of galleons?" Harry tried to focus all his attention on the crackling fire place before him rather than his once friend and his brutish insults.

The couch was soft burgundy velvet. The grate was burnt gold comprised of two rearing lions. Soft lights created a warm hazy glow throughout the room. These were the details Harry used to block out Ron's verbal abuse. The ginger continued talking, yelling, possibly screeching, but Harry couldn't hear the words so completely tuned out.

There was no way Harry was going to get in a fight verbal or otherwise. He knew the moment he engaged Ron the fight would only escalate until somehow Ron ended up in the hospital wing and Harry ended up in detention. That was not how he wanted his first week to go. It was better to let Ron rant and rave, burning up with anger at Harry's silence until he burnt out.

A few minutes past and it seemed that Ron was just staring at him expectantly so Harry decided that it was time to make his exit. Taking the stairs two at a time Harry ended up in his dorm in seconds sealing the curtains to his bed before Ron could pick his jaw up off the floor.

"History of Magic again?" Harry complained pitifully. The first month of crazy beginning passed without as much as a blip after Ron's outburst. He seemed to be sulking and licking his wounds although Harry was sure it was only a matter of time before he confronted Harry once again.

"Yes, we have it two days in a row Harry as I am sure you remember." Hermione yawned while flipping casual through the text. "You know there really isn't all that much about the goblin wars in here if you actually wanted to read the text."

"No goblin wars? So what is it?" To be honest Harry couldn't have cared less but hearing Hermione drone on helped keep him awake with minimal brain activity before it. Nibbling on a piece of dry toast and halfheartedly listening to Hermione was about the limit his mind could handle so early.

"There's so much more to history than wizards who invented stuff and wizards triumph and tyranny over magical beings. Some of the most interesting things are- " Before Hermione was able to completely regale him with what was the most interesting part of history the bell rang. Hermione didn't bother to try and finish her explanation of the deafening noise of an entire room full of people all exiting at the same time.

They both stood then joining the mass that slowly streamed out through the main doors. Briefly Harry looked up and noticed that the sky seemed to be clear enough for flying later in the day. Harry was unable to stare for long before Hermione dragged him away determined to get to class on time. Harry personally believed it didn't matter much. Binns never noticed anything.

Harry learned that jogging along behind someone who has a deadly grip on the neck of your robes is an awkward position to be in. It was because of that fact that Hermione and Harry stumbled into history almost colliding and creating a heap of tangled limbs on the floor.

Breathless and laughing Harry struggled to keep his balance. As he looked up under his fringe Harry saw something that shocked him to the core. In front of him the light mahogany desk Binns usually favored hovering over or around was suspiciously ghost free. Instead resting casually in the wing backed chair was a man. He was in his mid to late twenties with dark brown hair, high brows, and pale aristocratic features. The man dressed in expensive, but practical black robes with gold and silver embroidery probably hand stitched. As Harry took this all in the only thought that clearly surfaced in his mind was 'what the hell?'

Then the Slytherins arrived en masse. Pansy was apparently the first to notice the new comer because it could not have more than a few seconds before she ran. Charging at the older man she leapt at him in the clearest display of emotion Harry had ever seen from a Slytherin. The fact that she called him 'Dmitri' before tackling him in a hug only confused Harry more than ever.


End file.
